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SHAKSPEARE'S 


DRAMATIC    WORKS. 


VOL.  i. 


GIFT 


v. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


IT  has  been  the  design  of  the  publishers,  in  present 
ing  this  edition  of  the  Dramatic  Works  of  Shakspeare 
to  the  public,  to  give  the  text  as  accurately  as  possible  ; 
encumbering  it  with  as  few  notes  as  might  seem 
important  for  the  purposes  of  illustration.  This  task 
will  not  appear  light  to  those  acquainted  with  the 
different  editions,  and  with  the  results  of  the  labor  of 
the  various  commentators.  It  was  believed  this  could 
be  best  effected  by  adopting  the  full  and  comprehen 
sive  edition  of  Mr.  Singer,  as  the  foundation  of  theirs, 
relative  to  the  notes  ;  exercising  some  discretion  in 
relation  to  such  portions  as  might  appear  unnecessary, 
and  substituting  others,  thought  to  be  more  important. 

Notwithstanding  the  changes  in  both  respects,  it 
would  be  injustice  to  Mr.  Singer  not  to  express  to  him 
very  important  obligations  ;  and  yet  it  is  not  thought 
proper  to  affix  to  this  edition  the  name  of  Mr.  Singer, 
although  the  remarks  upon  the  several  plays  originate 
from  the  same  great  source.  With  regard  to  the  text, 
the  readings  of  the  folio  edition  of  1623  have  been 
preferred,  in  general. 


600 


G  ADVERTISEMENT. 

Iii  die  accompanying  biography  of  Shakspeare,  they 
have  drawn  1:  r-ely  from  that  mitten  by  Dr.  Symmons, 
aiul  originally  published  vrith  Mr.  Singer's  edition; 
hut.  with  tlie  view  of  t-r^  ruling  all  the  important  facts 
ivi  ttiiig  to  the  personal  history  of  the  great  Bard,  they 
have  added  the  "  New  Facts  regarding  the  Life  of 
Shakspeare,"  found  in  a  letter  addressed  by  J.  Payne 
Collie T  to  Thomas  Armyot,  and  now  reprinted  in  this 
country. 

In  short,  the  publishers  have  aimed  to  prepare  an 
edition,  both  in  regard  to  text  and  notes,  which  should 
be  as  accurate  and  clear  as  possible,  under  the  most 
careful  research  of  the  accomplished  scholar  who  has 
prepared  the  work  for  the  press  ;  and  in  its  combina 
tion  of  accuracy  and  elegance,  they  flatter  themselves 
this  will  be  found  to  be  the  most  splendid  edition  ever 
presented  to  the  American  public. 

PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON,  AND  COMPANY. 


GENERAL  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Vol.    Page 

LIFE  OF  SHAKSPEARE I.      in 

NEW  FACTS,  &c .1.  xlvii 

SHAKSPEARE'S  WILL I.    Ixxv 

PREFACE  OF  THE  PLAYERS I.  Ixxix 


PLAYS, 

ALPHABETICALLY  ARRANGED. 

Vol.  Page 

ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL II.  343 

ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA VI.    91 

As  You  LIKE  IT II.  253 

COMEDY  OF  ERRORS III.  109 

CORIOLANUS V.  447 

CYMBELINE VI.  213 

HAMLET,  PRINCE  OF  DENMARK VII.  247 

JULIUS  CJESAR VI.      3 

KING  HENRY  IV.,  Part  I III.  453 

— ,  Part  II IV.      3 

KINO  HENRY  V IV.  113 

KING  HENRY  VI.,  Part  I IV.  225 

,  Part  II IV.  321 

,  Part  III IV.  433 

KING  HENRY  VIII V.  131 

KING  JOHN III.  2G3 

KING  LEAR..  ..VII.      3 


g*  GENERAL  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 

Vol.  Page. 

KINO  RICHARD  II III.  355 

KING  RICHARD  III V'      3 

LOVE'S  LABOR'S  LOST IL    75 

M.CBETH "J-171 

MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE *•  329 

MERCHANT    OF  VENICE 1L  167 

.MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR *•  15'* 

TT  Q 

MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S  DREAM L 

MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING I.  423 

OTHELLO,  THE  MOOR  OF  VENICE VII.  395 

PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE VI.  45 

ROMEO  AND  JULIET •  • VIL  135 

TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW H-  447 

TEMPEST ' L      1 

TIMON  OF  ATHENS V.  359 

TITUS   ANDRONICUS • VI.  337 

TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA V.  239 

TWELFTH    NIGHT  ;   OR,  WHAT  You  WILL I.  247 

Two  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA I.    79 

WINTER'S  TALE HI.      3 


CONTENTS    OF    VOL.   I. 


Page. 

LIFE  OF  SHAKSPEARE iii 

NEW  FACTS,  &c xlvii 

SHAKSPEARE'S  WILL .Ixxv 

PREFACE   OF  THE    PLAYERS...  ..Ixxix 


Page. 

TEMPEST 1 

TWO   GENTLEMEN    OF  VERONA 79 

MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR 153 

TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  WHAT   YOU  WILL 247 

MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE 329 

MUCH  ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING 423 

VOL.    I.  A 


THE    LIFE 


WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE, 


WITH    SOME 


REMARKS   UPON   HIS   DRAMATIC   WRITINGS. 


LITTLE  more  than  two  centuries  has  elapsed  since  William  Shak 
speare  conversed  with  our  tongue,  and  trod  the  self-same  soil  with 
ourselves ;  and  if  it  were  not  for  the  records  kept  by  our  Church 
in  its  registers  of  births,  marriages,  and  burials,  we  should  at  this 
moment  be  as  personally  ignorant  of  the  "  sweet  swan  of  Avon" 
as  we  are  of  the  old  minstrel  and  rhapsodist  of  Meles.  That 
William  Shakspeare  was  born  in  Stratford  upon  Avon;  that  he 
married  and  had  three  children  ;  that  he  wrote  a  certain  number  of 
dramas ;  that  he  died  before  he  had  attained  to  old  age,  and  was 
buried  in  his  native  town, — are  positively  the  only  facts,  in  the 
personal  history  of  this  extraordinary  man,  of  which  we  are  certainly 
possessed ;  and,  if  we  should  be  solicitous  to  fill  up  this  bare  and 
most  unsatisfactory  outline,  we  must  have  recourse  to  the  vague 
reports  of  unsubstantial  tradition,  or  to  the  still  more  shadowy 
inferences  of  lawless  and  vagabond  conjecture.  Of  this  remark 
able  ignorance  of  one  of  the  most  richly  endowed  with  intellect  of 
the  human  species,  who  ran  his  mortal  race  in  our  own  country, 
and  who  stands  separated  from  us  by  no  very  great  intervention  of 
time,  the  causes  may  not  be  difficult  to  be  ascertained.  William 
Shakspeare  was  an  actor  and  a  writer  of  plays;  in  neither  of  which 
characters,  however  he  might  excel  in  them,  could  he  be  lifted  high 
in  the  estimation  of  his  contemporaries.  He  was  honored,  indeed, 
with  the  friendship  of  nobles  and  the  patronage  of  monarchs :  his 


IV  THE    LIFE    OF   WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE. 

theatre  was  frequented  by  the  wits  of  the  metropolis;  and  he 
associated  with  the  most  intellectual  of  his  times.  But  the  spirit  of 
tin?  ai:e  was  against  him;  and,  in  opposition  to  it,  he  could  not 
!M  i-ome  the  subject  of  any  general  or  comprehensive  interest.  The 
nation,  in  short,  knew  little  and  cared  less  about  him.  During  his 
life,  and  for  some  years  after  his  death,  inferior  dramatists  outran 
him  in  the  race  of  popularity ;  and  then  the  flood  of  Puritan  fanati 
cism  swept  him  and  the  stage  together  into  temporary  oblivion.  Or 
the  restoration  of  the  monarchy  and  the  theatre,  the  school  of 
France  perverted  our  taste  ;  and  it  was  not  till  the  last  century  was 
somewhat  advanced,  that  William  Shakspearc  arose  again,  as  it 
were,  from  the  tomb,  in  all  his  proper  majesty  of  light.  He  then 
became  the  subject  of  solicitous  and  learned  inquiry ;  but  inquiry 
wa*  then  too  late ;  and  all  that  it  could  recover  from  the  ravage  of 
time  were  only  a  few  human  fragments,  which  could  scarcely  be 
united  into  a  man.  To  these  causes  of  our  personal  ignorance  of 
the  great  bard  of  England  must  be  added  his  own  strange  indiffer 
ence  to  the  celebrity  of  genius.  When  he  had  produced  his  admi 
rable  works,  ignorant  or  heedless  of  their  value,  he  abandoned 
them  with  perfect  indifference  to  oblivion  or  to  fame.  It  surpassed 
his  thought  that  he  could  grow  into  the  admiration  of  the  world .; 
and,  without  any  reference  to  the  curiosity  of  future  ages,  in  which 
he  could  not  conceive  himself  to  possess  an  interest,  he  was  con 
tented  to  die  in  the  arms  of  obscurity,  as  an  unlaurcled  burgher 
of  a  provincial  town.  To  this  combination  of  causes  arc  we  to 
attribute  the  scantiness  of  our  materials  for  the  Life  of  William 
Shakspeare.  His  works  are  in  myriads  of  hands  :  he  constitutes 
the  delight  of  myriads  of  readers:  his  renown  is  coextensive  with 
the  civilization  of  man  ;  and,  striding  across  the  ocean  from 
Europe,  it  occupies  the  wide  region  of  transatlantic  empire:  but 
he  is  himself  only  a  shadow  which  disappoints  our  grasp;  an 
undefined  form,  which  is  rather  intimated  than  discovered  to  the 
kr>one<t  searchings  of  our  eye.  Of  the  little,  however,  questionable 
or  certain,  which  can  be  told  of  him,  we  must  now  proceed  to  make 
tho  host  use  in  our  power,  to  write  what  by  courtesy  may  be  called 
his  life  ;  and  we  have  only  to  lament  that  the  result  of  our  labor 
mu<t  ^rr-atly  disappoint  the  curiosity  which  has  been  excited  by  the 
LT'mlfMir  of  his  reputation.  The  slight  narrative  of  Rowe,  founded 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  V 

on  the  information  obtained,  in  the  beginning  of  the  last  century,  by 
the  inquiries  of  Betterton,  the  famous  actor,  will  necessarily  supply 
us  with  the  greater  part  of  the  materials  with  which  we  are  to  work. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE,  or  SHAKSPERE  (for  the  floating  orthogra 
phy  of  the  name  is  properly  attached  to  the  one  or  the  other  of  these 
varieties),  was  baptized  in  the  church  of  Stratford  upon  Avon,  as 
is  ascertained  by  the  parish  register,  on  the  26th  of  April,  1564 ; 
and  he  is  said  to  have  been  born  on  the  23d  of  the  same  month,  the 
day  consecrated  to  the  tutelar  saint  of  England  His  parents, 
John  and  Mary  Shakspeare,  were  not  of  equal  ranks  in  the  commu 
nity  ;  for  the  former  was  only  a  respectable  tradesman,  whose  an 
cestors  cannot  be  traced  into  gentility,  whilst  the  latter  belonged 
to  an  ancient  and  opulent  house  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  being 
the  youngest  daughter  of  Robert  Arden  of  Wilmecote.  The  family 
of  the  Ardens  (or  Ardernes,  as  it  is  written  in  all  the  old  deeds) 
was  of  considerable  antiquity  and  importance,  some  of  them  having 
served  as  high  sheriffs  of  their  county,  and  two  of  them  (Sir  John 
Arden  and  his  nephew,  the  grandfather  of  Mrs.  Shakspeare)  hav 
ing  enjoyed  each  a  station  of  honor  in  the  personal  establishment 
of  Henry  VII.  The  younger  of  these  Ardens  was  made,  by  his 
sovereign,  keeper  of  the  park  of  Aldercar,  and  bailiff  of  the  lordship 
of  Codnore.  He  obtained,  also,  from  the  crown,  a  valuable  grant 
in  the  lease  of  the  manor  of  Yoxsal,  in  Staffordshire,  consisting  of 
more  than  4,600  acres,  at  a  rent  of  42/.  Mary  Arden  did  not 
come  dowerless  to  her  plebeian  husband ;  for  she  brought  to  him  a 
small  freehold  estate  called  Asbies,  and  the  sum  of  6/.  135.  4J.  in 
money.  The  freehold  consisted  of  a  house  and  fifty-four  acres  of 
land ;  and,  as  far  as  it  appears,  it  was  the  first  piece  of  landed 
property  which  was  ever  possessed  by  the  Shakspeares.  Of  this 
marriage  the  offspring  was  four  sons  and  four  daughters ;  of  whom 
Joan  (or,  according  to  the  orthography  of  that  time,  Jone)  and 
Margaret,  the  eldest  of  the  children,  died,  one  in  infancy  and  one 
at  a  somewhat  more  advanced  age  ;  and  Gilbert,  whose  birth  im 
mediately  succeeded  to  that  of  our  Poet,  is  supposed  by  some  not 
to  have  reached  his  maturity,  and  by  others,  to  have  attained  to 
considerable  longevity.  Joan,  the  eldest  of  the  four  remaining 
children,  and  named  after  her  deceased  sister,  married  William 


Vi  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

Hart,  a  hatter  in  her  native  town  ;  and  Edmund,  the  youngest  of 
the  family,  adopting  the  profession  of  an  actor,  resided  in  St. 
Savior's  parisli  in  London;  and  was  buried  in  St.  Savior's 
Church,  on  the  last  day  of  December,  1607,  in  his  twenty-eighth 
year.  Of  Anne  and  Richard,  whose  births  intervened  between 
those  of  Joan  and  Edmund,  the  parish  register  tells  the  whole 
historv,  when  it  records  that  the  former  was  buried  on  the  4th  of 
April,  1579,  in  the  eighth  year  of  her  age,  and  the  latter  on  the 
4th  of  February,  1012-13,  when  he  had  nearly  completed  his 
thirty-ninth. 

In  consequence  of  a  document,  discovered  in  the  year  1770,  in 
the  house  in  which,  if  tradition  is  to  be  trusted,  our  Poet  was  born, 
some  persons  have  concluded  that  John  Shakspeare  was  a  Roman 
Catholic,  though  he  had  risen,  by  the  regular  gradation  of  office, 
to  the  chief  dignity  of  the  corporation  of  Stratford,  that  of  high 
bailiff;  and,  during  the  whole  of  this  period,  had  unquestionably 
conformed  to  the  rites  of  the  Church  of  England.  The  asserted 
fact  seemed  not  to  be  very  probable  ;  and  the  document  in  question, 
which,  drawn  up  in  a  testamentary  form,  and  regularly  attested, 
zealously  professes  the  Roman  faith  of  him  in  whose  name  it  speaks, 
having  been  subjected  to  a  rigid  examination  by  Malone,  has  been 
pronounced  to  be  spurious.  The  trade  of  John  Shakspeare,  as 
well  as  his  religious  faith,  has  recently  been  made  the  subject  of 
controversy.  According  to  the  testimony  of  Rowe,  grounded  on 
the  tradition  of  Stratford,  the  father  of  our  Poet  was  a  dealer  in 
wool,  or,  in  the  provincial  vocabulary  of  his  country,  a  wool-driver  ; 
and  such  he  has  been  deemed  by  all  the  biographers  of  his  son, 
till  the  fact  was  thrown  into  doubt  by  the  result  of  the  inquisitive- 
ness  of  Malone.  Finding,  in  an  old  and  obscure  MS.  purporting 
to  record  the  proceedings  of  the  bailiff's  court  in  Stratford,  our 
John  Shakspeare  designated  as  a  glover,  Malone  exults  over  the 
ignorance  of  poor  Rowe,  and  assumes  no  small  degree  of  merit  to 
himself  as  the  discoverer  of  a  long-sought  and  a  most  important 
historic  truth.  If  he  had  recollected  the  remark  of  the  clown  in 
the  Twelfth  Night,*  that  "  a  sentence  is  but  a  cheverel  glove  to  a 
good  wit.  How  quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turned  outwards  !" 

*  Act  iii.  sc.  1. 


THE  LIFE  OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  Vll 

— he  would,  doubtless,  have  pressed  the  observation  into  his  service, 
and  brought  it  as  an  irresistible  attestation  of  the  veracity  of  his 
old  MS. 

Whatever  may  have  been  the  trade  of  John  Shakspeare,  whether 
that  of  wool-merchant  or  of  glover,  it  seems,  with  the  little  fortune 
of  his  wife,  to  have  placed  him  in  a  state  of  easy  competence.  In 
1569  or  1570,  in  consequence  partly  of  his  alliance  with  the  Ardens, 
and  partly  of  his  attainment  of  the  prime  municipal  honors  of  his 
town,  he  obtained  a  concession  of  arms  from  the  herald's  office — a 
grant  which  placed  him  and  his  family  on  the  file  of  the  gentry  of 
England  ;  and,  in  1574,  he  purchased  two  houses,  with  gardens 
and  orchards  annexed  to  them,  in  Henley  Street,  in  Stratford. 
But  before  the  year  1578,  his  prosperity,  from  causes  not  now  as- 
certainable,  had  certainly  declined ;  for  in  that  year,  as  we  find 
from  the  records  of  his  borough,  he  was  excused,  in  condescension  to 
his  poverty,  from  the  moiety  of  a  very  moderate  assessment  of  six 
shillings  and  eight  pence,  made  by  the  members  of  the  corporation 
on  themselves ;  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  altogether  exempted 
from  his  contribution  to  the  relief  of  the  poor.  During  the  re 
maining  years  of  his  life,  his  fortunes  appear  not  to  have  recovered 
themselves;  for  he  ceased  to  attend  the  meetings  of  the  corporation 
hall,  where  he  had  once  presided  ;  and,  in  1586,  another  person  was 
substituted  as  alderman  in  his  place,  in  consequence  of  his  magis 
terial  inefficiency.  He  died  in  the  September  of  1601,  when  his 
illustrious  son  had  already  attained  to  high  celebrity  ;  and  his  wife, 
Mary  Shakspeare,  surviving  him  for  seven  years,  deceased  in  the 
September  of  1608,  the  burial  of  the  former  being  registered  on  the 
eighth,  and  that  of  the  latter  on  the  ninth  of  this  month,  in  each  of 
these  respective  years. 

On  the  30th  of  June,  1564,  when  our  Poet  had  not  yet  been 
three  months  in  this  breathing  world,  his  native  Stratford  was  visited 
by  the  plague  ;  and,  during  the  six  succeeding  months,  the  ravaging 
disease  is  calculated  to  have  swept  to  the  grave  more  than  a  seventh 
part  of  the  whole  population  of  the  place.  But  the  favored  infant 
reposed  in  security  in  his  cradle,  and  breathed  health  amid  an  at 
mosphere  of  pestilence.  The  Genius  of  England  may  be  supposed 
to  have  held  the  arm  of  the  destroyer,  and  not  to  have  permitted  it 
to  fall  on  the  consecrated  dwelling  of  his  and  Nature's  darling. 


viii  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

The  disease,  indeed,  did  not  overstep  his  charmed  threshold;  for 
the  name  of  Shakspeare  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  register  of  deaths 
throughout  that  period  of  accelerated  mortality.     That  he  survived 
this  desolating  calamity  of  his  townsmen,  is  all  that  we  know  of 
William  Shakspeare  from  the  day  of  his  birth  till  he  was  sent,  as 
we  are  informed  by  Howe,  to  the  free-school  of  Stratford ;  and  was 
stationed  there  in  the  course  of  his  education,  till,  in  consequence 
uf  the  straitened  circumstances  of  his  father,  he  was  recalled  to  the 
paternal  roof.     As  we  are  not  told  at  what  age  he  was  sent  to 
school,  we  cannot  form  any  estimate  of  the  time  during  which  ho 
remained  there  ;  but  if  he  was  placed  under  his  master  when  he  was 
six  years  old,  he  might  have  continued  in  a  state  of  instruction 
lor  sevftn   or   even    for  eight  years— a  term  sufficiently  long    for 
any  boy,  not  an  absolute  blockhead,  to  acquire  something  more 
than  the  mere  elements  of  the  classical  languages.     We  are  too 
ignorant,  however,  of  dates,  in  these  instances,  to  speak  with  any 
confidence  on  the  subject;  and  we  can  only  assert  that  seven  or 
eiiiht  of  the  fourteen  years,  which  intervened  between  the  birth  of 
our  Poet  in  15G4  and  the  known  period  of  his  father's  diminished 
fortune  in  1578,  might  very  properly  have  been  given  to  the  advari- 
tages  of  the  free-school.     But  now  the  important  question  is  to  be 
askod— What  were  the  attainments  of  our  young  Shakspeare  at 
this  seat  of  youthful  instruction?     Did  he    return  to  his  father's 
house  in  a  state  of  utter  ignorance  of  classic  literature?  or  was 
he  as  far  advanced  in  his  school-studies  as  boys  of  his  age  (which 
I  take  to  be  thirteen  or  fourteen)  usually  are  in  the  common  prog- 
ress  of  our  public  and  more  reputable   schools?     That  his  scho 
lastic  attainments  did  not  rise  to  the  point  of  learning,  seems  to 
have  been  the  general  opinion  of  his  contemporaries;   and  to  this 
opinion  I  am  willing  to  assent.     But  I  cannot  persuade  myself  that 
he  was  entirely  unacquainted  with  the  classic  tongues;  or  that,  as 
Farmer  and  his  followers  labor  to  convince  us,  he  could  receive  the 
instructions,  even  for  three  or  four  years,  of  a  school  of  any  char 
acter,  and  could  then   depart  without   any  knowledge   beyond   that 
of  the  Latin  accidence.     The  most  accomplished  scholar  may  read 
with  pleasure  the  poetic  versions  of  the  classic  poets  ;  and  the  less 
advanced  proficient  may  consult  his   indolence   by  applying  to  the 
page  of  a  translation  of  a  prose  classic,  when  accuracy  of  quotation 


THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  ix 

may  not  be  required ;  and  on  evidences  of  this  nature  is  supported 
the  charge  which  has  been  brought,  and  which  is  now  generally 
admitted,  against  our  immortal  Bard,  of  more  than  school-boy  igno 
rance.  He  might,  indeed,  from  necessity  apply  to  North  for  the  in 
terpretation  of  Plutarch;  but  he  read  Golding's  Ovid  only,  as  I  am 
satisfied,  for  the  entertainment  of  its  English  poetry.  Ben  Jonson, 
who  must  have  been  intimately  conversant  with  his  friend's  classic 
acquisitions,  tells  us  expressly  that  "  He  had  small  Latin,  and  less 
Greek."  But,  according  to  the  usual  plan  of  instruction  in  our 
schools,  he  must  have  traversed  a  considerable  extent  of  the  lan 
guage  of  Rome,  before  he  could  touch  even  the  confines  of  that  of 
Greece.  He  must  in  short  have  read  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  and 
a  part  at  least  of  Virgil,  before  he  could  open  the  grammar  of  the 
more  ancient,  and  copious,  and  complex  dialect.  This  I  conceive 
to  be  a  fair  statement  of  the  case  in  the  question  respecting  Shalo 
speare's  learning.  Beyond  controversy  he  was  not  a  scholar ;  but 
he  had  not  profited  so  little  by  the  hours  which  he  had  passed  in 
school,  as  not  to  be  able  to  understand  the  more  easy  Roman  au 
thors  without  the  assistance  of  a  translation.  If  he  himself  had 
been  asked,  on  the  subject,  he  might  have  parodied  his  own  Falstaff, 
and  have  answered,  "  Indeed  I  am  not  a  Scaliger  or  a  Budteus,  but 
yet  no  blockhead,  friend."  I  believe  also  that  he  was  not  wholly 
unacquainted  with  the  popular  languages  of  France  and  Italy.  He 
had  abundant  leisure  to  acquire  them ;  and  the  activity  and  the 
curiosity  of  his  mind  were  sufficiently  strong  to  urge  him  to  their 
acquisition.  But  to  discuss  this  much-agitated  question,  would  lead 
me  beyond  the  limits  which  are  prescribed  to  me ;  and,  contenting 
myself  with  declaring  that,  in  my  opinion,  both  parties  are  wrong, 
both  they  who  contend  for  our  Poet's  learning,  and  they  who  place 
his  illiteracy  on  a  level  with  that  of  John  Taylor,  the  celebrated 
water  poet,  I  must  resume  my  humble  and  most  deficient  narrative. 
The  classical  studies  of  William  Shakspeare,  whatever  progress  he 
may  or  may  not  have  made  in  them,  were  now  suspended ;  and  he 
was  replaced  in  his  father's  house,  when  he  had  attained  his  thir 
teenth  or  fourteenth  year,  to  assist  with  his  hand  in  the  maintenance 
of  the  family.  Whether  he  continued  in  this  situation  whilst  he 
remained  in  his  single  state,  has  not  been  told  to  us,  and  cannot 
therefore,  at  this  period,  be  known.  But  in  the  absence  of  informa 
VOL  i.  B 


\  THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE. 

tion,  conjecture  will  be  busy,  and  will  soon  cover  the  bnre  desert 
with  unprofitable  vegetation.  Whilst  Malone  surmises  that  the 
young  Poet  passed  the  interval,  till  his  marriage,  or  a  large  portion 
of  it,  in  the  office  of  an  attorney,  Aubrey  stations  him,  during  the 
same  term,  at  the  head  of  a  country  school.  But  the  surmises  of 
Malone  are  not  universally  happy;  and  to  the  assertions  of  Aubrey 
I  am  not  disposed  to  attach  more  credit  than  was  attached  to  them 
by  Anthony  Wood,  who  knew  the  old  gossip,  and  was  competent 
to  appreciate  his  character.  It  is  more  probable  that  the  necessity 
which  brought  young  Shakspeare  from  his  school,  retained  him 
with  his  father's  occupation  at  home,  till  the  acquisition  of  a  wife 
made  it  convenient  for  him  to  remove  to  a  separate  habitation.  It 
is  reasonable  to  conclude  that  a  mind  like  his,  ardent,  excursive, 
and  "  all  compact  of  imagination,"  would  not  be  satisfied  with 
entire  inactivity,  but  would  obtain  knowledge  where  it  could,  if 
not  from  the  stores  of  the  ancients,  from  those  at  least  which  were 
supplied  to  him  by  the  writers  of  his  own  country. 

In  1582,  before  he  had  completed  his  eighteenth  year,  he  married 
Anne  Hathaway,  the  daughter,  as  Rowe  informs  us,  of  a  substantial 
yeoman  in  the  neighborhood  of  Stratford.  We  are  unacquainted 
with  the  precise  period  of  their  marriage,  and  with  the  church  in 
which  it  was  solemnized  ;  for  in  the  register  of  Stratford  there  is  no 
record  of  the  event ;  and  we  are  made  certain  of  the  year  in  which 
it  occurred  only  by  the  baptism  of  Susannah,  the  first  produce  of 
the  union,  on  the  26th  of  May,  1583.  As  young  Shakspeare  neither 
increased  his  fortune  by  this  match,  though  he  probably  received 
some  money  with  his  wife,  nor  raised  himself  by  it  in  the  community, 
we  may  conclude  that  lie  was  induced  to  it  by  inclination,  and  the 
impulse  of  love.  But  the  youthful  poet's  dream  of  happiness  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  realized  by  the  result.  The  bride  was  eight 
years  older  than  the  bridegroom ;  and  whatever  charms  she  mio-ht 
possess  to  fascinate  the  eyes  of  her  boy-lover,  she  probably  was  de 
ficient  in  those  powers  which  are  requisite  to  impose  a  durable 
fetter  on  the  heart,  and  to  hold  "  in  sweet  captivity  "  a  mind  of  the 
very  highest  order.  No  charge  is  intimated  against  the  lady;  but 
she  is  left  in  Stratford  by  her  husband  during  his  long  residence 
in  the  metropolis  ;  and  on  his  death,  she  is  found  to  be  only  slightly, 
and,  as  it  wore,  casually,  remembered  in  his  will.  Her  second 


THE   LIFE  OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  X] 

pregnancy,  which  was  productive  of  twins  (Hamnet  and  Judith, 
baptized  on  the  2d  of  February,  1584-5),  terminated  her  pride  as 
a  mother ;  and  we  know  nothing  more  respecting  her,  than  that, 
surviving  her  illustrious  consort  by  rather  more  than  seven  years, 
she  was  buried  on  the  8th  of  August,  1623,  being,  as  we  are  told 
by  the  inscription  on  her  tomb,  of  the  age  of  sixty-seven.  Respect 
ing  the  habits  of  life>  or  the  occupation  of  our  young  Poet  by  which 
he  obtained  his  subsistence,  or  even  the  place  of  his  residence, 
subsequently  to  his  marriage,  not  a  floating  syllable  has  been  wafted 
to  us  by  tradition  for  the  gratification  of  our  curiosity ;  and  the 
history  of  this  great  man  is  a  perfect  blank  till  the  occurrence  of 
an  event,  which  drove  him  from  his  native  town,  and  gave  his 
wonderful  intellect  to  break  out  in  its  full  lustre  on  the  world. 
From  the  frequent  allusions  in  his  writings  to  the  elegant  sport  of 
falconry,  it  has  been  suggested  that  this,  possibly,  might  be  one  of 
his  favorite  amusements ;  and  nothing  can  be  more  probable,  from 
the  active  season  of  his  life,  and  his  fixed  habitation  in  the  country, 
than  his  strong  and  eager  passion  for  all  the  pleasures  of  the  field. 
As  a  sportsman,  in  his  rank  of  life,  he  would  naturally  become  a 
poacher ;  and  then  it  is  highly  probable  that  he  would  fall  into  the 
acquaintance  of  poachers,  and,  associating  with  them  in  his  idler 
hours,  would  occasionally  be  one  of  their  fellow-marauders  on  the 
manors  of  their  rich  neighbors.  In  one  of  these  licentious  excursions 
on  the  grounds  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  of  Charlecote,  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  Stratford,  for  the  purpose,  as  it  is  said,  of  stealing  his 
deer,  our  young  Bard  was  detected ;  and,  having  farther  irritated 
the  knight  by  affixing  a  satirical  ballad  on  him  to  the  gates  of 
Charlecote,  he  was  compelled  to  fly  before  the  enmity  of  his  power 
ful  adversary,  and  to  seek  an  asylum  in  the  capital.  Mai  one,  who 
is  prone  to  doubt,  wishes  to  question  the  truth  of  this  whole  narra 
tive,  and  to  ascribe  the  flight  of  young  Shakspeare  from  his  native 
country  to  the  embarrassment  of  his  circumstances,  and  the  perse 
cution  of  his  creditors.  But  the  story  of  the  deer-stealing  rests 
upon  the  uniform  tradition  of  Stratford,  and  is  confirmed  by  the 
character  of  Sir  T.  Lucy,  who  is  known  to  have  been  a  rigid  pre 
server  of  his  game ;  by  the  enmity  displayed  against  his  memory 
by  Shakspeare  in  his  succeeding  life  ;  and  by  a  part  of  the  offensive 


xii  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE. 

ball  :<1*  itself,  preserved  by  a  Mr.  Jones  of  Tarhick,  a  village  near 
to  Stratford,  who  obtained  it  from  those  who  must  have  been  ac 
quainted  with  the  fact,  and  who  could  not  be  biased  by  any  interest 
i>:  passion  to  falsify  or  misstate  it.  Besides,  the  objector,  in  this  in 
stance,  seems  not  to  be  aware  that  it  was  easier  to  escape  from  the 
resentment  of  an  offended  proprietor  of  game,  than  from  the  avarice 
of  a  creditor;  that,  whilst  the  former  might  be  satisfied  with  the  re 
moval  of  the  delinquent  to  a  situation  where  he  could  no  longer 
infest  his  parks  or  his  warrens,  the  latter  would  pursue  his  debtor 
wherever  bailiffs  could  find  and  writs  could  attach  him.  On  every 
account,  therefore,  I  believe  the  tradition,  recorded  by  Howe,  that 
our  Poet  retired  from  Stratford  before  the  exasperated  pow-er  of  Sir 
T.  Lucy,  and  found  a  refuge  in  London,  not  possibly  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  arm,  but  beyond  the  hostile  purposes  of  his  provincial 
antagonist. 

The  time  of  this  eventful  flight  of  the  great  Bard  of  England 
cannot  now  be  accurately  determined;  but  we  may  somewhat  con 
fidently  place  it  between  the  years  1585  and  1588  ;  for  in  the  former 
of  these  we  may  conclude  him  to  have  been  present  with  his  family 
at  the  baptism  of  his  twins,  Hamnet  and  Judith ;  and  than  the 
latter  of  them  we  cannot  well  assign  a  later  date  for  his  arrival  in 
London,  since  we  know  f  that  before  159*2  he  had  not  only  written 
two  long  poems,  the  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  the  Rape  of  Lucrece, 
but  had  acquired  no  small  degree  of  celebrity  as  an  actor  and  as  a 
dramatic  writer. 

At  this  agitating  crisis  of  his  life,  the  situation  of  young  Shak- 
spearc  was  certainly,  in  its  obvious  aspect,  severe  and  even  terrific. 
Without  friends  to  protect  or  assist  him,  he  was  driven,  under  the 
frown  of  exasperated  power,  from  his  profession ;  from  his  native 
fields ;  from  the  companions  of  his  childhood  and  his  youth  ;  from 
his  wife  and  his  infant  offspring.  The  world  was  spread  before  him, 
like  a  dark  ocean,  in  which  no  fortunate  isle  could  be  seen  to  glitter 

*  The  first  stanza  of  this  ballad,  which  is  admitted  to  be  genuine,  may  properly  be  pre 
served  as  a  curiosity.  But  as  it  is  to  be  found  in  every  life  of  our  author,  with  the  exception 
i if  Howe's,  I  shall  refer  my  readers,  to  whom  it  could  not  be  gratifying,  to  some  other  page 
for  it  than  my  own. 

f  From  Itulii  rt  (ireene's  posthumous  work,  written  in  1592,  and  Chettle's  Kind  Hart' 
Dream,  published  very  soon  afterwards. 


THE    LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE.  Xlll 

amid  the  gloomy  and  sullen  tide.  But  he  was  blessed  with  youth 
and  health ;  his  conscience  was  umvounded,  for  the  adventure  for 
which  he  suffered,  was  regarded,  in  the  estimation  of  his  times,  as 
a  mere  boy's  frolic,  of  not  greater  guilt  than  the  robbing  of  an 
orchard  ;  and  his  mind,  rich  beyond  example  in  the  gold  of  heaven, 
could  throw  lustre  over  the  black  waste  before  him,  and  could 
people  it  with  a  beautiful  creation  of  her  own.  We  may  imagine 
him,  then,  departing  from  his  home,  not  indeed  like  the  great 
Roman  captive,  as  he  is  described  by  the  poet — 

Fertur  pudicae  conjugis  osculum, 
Parvosque  natos,  ut  capitis  minor, 

Ab  se  removisse,  et  virilem 

Torvus  humi  posuisse,  vultum,  &c. — 

but  touched  with  some  feelings  of  natural  sorrow,  yet  with  an 
unfaltering  step,  and  with  hope  vigorous  at  his  heart.  It  was 
impossible  that  he  should  despair ;  and  if  he  indulged  in  sanguine 
expectation,  the  event  proved  him  not  to  be  a  visionary.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  years,  the  exile  of  Stratford  became  the  associate 
of  wits,  the  friend  of  nobles,  the  favorite  of  monarchs ;  and  in  a 
period  which  still  left  him  not  in  sight  of  old  age,  he  returned  to 
his  birthplace  in  affluence,  with  honor,  and  with  the  plaudits  of 
the  judicious  and  the  noble  resounding  in  his  ears. 

His  immediate  refuge  in  the  metropolis  was  the  stage ;  to  which 
his  access,  as  it  appears,  was  easy.  Stratford  was  fond  of  theatrical 
representations,  which  it  accommodated  with  its  town  or  guildhall, 
and  had  frequently  been  visited  by  companies  of  players  when  our 
Poet  was  of  an  age  not  only  to  enjoy  their  performances,  but  to  form 
an  acquaintance  with  their  members.  Thomas  Greene,  who  was  one 
of  their  distinguished  actors,  has  been  considered  by  some  writers 
as  a  kinsman  of  our  author's ;  and  though  he,  possibly,  may  have 
been  confounded  by  them  with  another  Thomas  Greene,  a  barrister, 
who  was  unquestionably  connected  with  the  Shakspeares,  he  was 
certainly  a  fellow-townsman  of  our  fugitive  Bard's  ;  whilst  Heminge 
and  Burbage,  two  of  the  leaders  of  the  company  in  question, 
belonged  either  to  Stratford  or  to  its  immediate  neighborhood.  With 
the  door  of  the  theatre  thus  open  to  him,  and  under  the  impulse  of 
his  own  theatrical  bias  (for  however  in  after-life  he  may  have  lament 
ed  his  degradation  as  a  professional  actor,  it  must  be  concluded 


Xiv  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

that  he  now  felt  a  strong  attachment  to  the  stage),  it  is  not  wonder 
ful  that  young  Shakspeare  should  solicit  this  asylum  in  his  distress; 
or  that  he  should  be  kindly  received  by  men  who  knew  him,  and 
some  of  whom  were  connected,  if  not  with  his  family,  at  least  with 
his  native  town.  The  company,  to  which  he  united  himself,  was 
the  Earl  of  Leicester's  or  the  Queen's,  which  had  obtained  the 
royal  license  in  1574.  The  place  of  its  performances,  when  our 
I'lii-t  became  enrolled  among  its  members,  was  the  Globe  on  the 
Bankside  ;  and  its  managers  subsequently  purchased  the  theatre  of 
Black  friars  (the  oldest  theatre  in  London),  which  they  had  pre 
viously  rented  for  some  years;  and  at  these  two  theatres,  the  first 
of  which  was  open  in  the  centre  for  summer  representations,  and 
the  last  covered  for  those  of  winter,  were  acted  all  the  dramatic 
productions  of  Shakspeare.  That  he  was  at  first  received  into  the 
company  in  a  very  subordinate  situation,  may  be  regarded  not 
merely  as  probable,  but  as  certain ;  that  he  ever  carried  a  link  to 
light  the  frequenters  of  the  theatre,  or  ever  held  their  horses,  must 
be  rejected  as  an  absurd  tale,  fabricated,  no  doubt,  by  the  lovers  of 
the  marvellous,  who  were  solicitous  to  obtain  a  contrast  in  the 
humility  of  his  first  to  the  pride  of  his  subsequent  fortunes.  The 
mean  and  servile  occupation,  thus  assigned  to  him,  was  incompat 
ible  with  his  circumstances,  even  in  their  present  afflicted  state ; 
and  his  relations  and  connections,  though  far  from  wealthy,  were 
yet  too  remote  from  absolute  poverty,  to  permit  him  to  act  for  a 
moment  in  such  a  degrading  situation.  He  was  certainly,  there 
fore,  immediately  admitted  within  the  theatre  ;  but  in  what  rank  or 
character  cannot  now  be  known.  This  fact,  however,  soon  became 
of  very  little  consequence ;  for  he  speedily  raised  himself  into  con 
sideration  among  his  new  fellows  by  the  exertions  of  his  pen,  if 
not  by  his  proficiency  as  an  actor.  When  he  began  his  career  as 
a  dramatic  writer,  or  to  what  degree  of  excellence  he  attained  in 
hi<  personation  of  dramatic  characters,  are  questions  which  have 
:i  frequently  agitated  without  any  satisfactory  result.  By  two 
publications,  which  appeared  toward  the  end  of  1592,  we  know, 
or  at  loast  we  are  induced  strongly  to  infer,  that  at  that  period, 
either  as  the  corrector  of  old  or  as  the  writer  of  original  dramas, 
he  had  supplied  the  stage  with  a  copiousness  of  materials.  We 
learn  also  from  the  same  documents  that,  in  his  profession  of  actor, 


THE   LIFE   OF    WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XV 

he  trod  the  boards  not  without  the  acquisition  of  applause.  The 
two  publications,  to  which  I  allude,  are  Robert  Greene's  "  Groats- 
worth  of  Wit  bought  with  a  Million  of  Repentance,"  and  Henry 
Chettle's  "  Kind  Hart's  Dream."  In  the  former  of  these  works, 
which  was  published  by  Chettle  subsequently  to  the  unhappy  author's 
decease,  the  writer,  addressing  his  fellow  dramatists,  Marlowe, 
Peele,  and  Lodge,  says,  "  Yes  !  trust  them  not"  (the  managers  of 
the  theatre) ;  "  for  there  is  an  upstart  crow,  beautified  with  our 
feathers,  that,  with  his  tiger's  heart  wrapped  in  a  player's  hide, 
supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bombast  out  a  blank  verse  as  the  best 
of  you ;  and,  being  an  absolute  Johannes  Factotum,  is  in  his  own 
conceit  the  only  Shake-scene  in  a  country."  As  it  could  not  be 
doubtful  against  whom  this  attack  was  directed,  we  cannot  wonder 
that  Shakspeare  should  be  hurt  by  it ;  or  that  he  should  expostulate 
on  the  occasion  rather  warmly  with  Chettle  as  the  editor  of  the 
offensive  matter.  In  consequence,  as  it  is  probable,  of  this  expres 
sion  of  resentment  on  the  part  of  Shakspeare,  a  pamphlet  from  the 
pen  of  Chettle,  called  "  Kind  Hart's  Dream,"  issued  from  the  press 
before  the  close  of  the  same  year  (1592)  which  had  witnessed  the 
publication  of  Greene's  posthumous  work.  In  this  pamphlet,  Chet 
tle  acknowledges  his  concern  for  having  edited  any  thing  which 
had  given  pain  to  Shakspeare,  of  whose  character  and  accomplish 
ments  he  avows  a  very  favorable  opinion.  Marlowe,  as  well  as 
Shakspeare,  appears  to  have  been  offended  by  some  passages  in 
this  production  of  poor  Greene's ;  and  to  both  of  these  great  dra 
matic  poets  Chettle  refers  in  the  short  citation  which  we  shall  now 
make  from  his  page  :  "  With  neither  of  them  that  take  offence  was 
I  acquainted,  and  with  one  of  them"  (concluded  to  be  Marlowe, 
whose  moral  character  was  unhappily  not  good)  "  I  care  not  if  I 
never  be.  The  other "  (who  must  necessarily  be  Shakspeare), 
"  whom  at  that  time  I  did  not  so  much  spare  as  since  I  wish  I  had ;  for 
that,  as  I  have  moderated  the  hate  of  living  authors,  and  might  have 
used  my  own  discretion  (especially  in  such  a  case,  the  author  being 
dead),  that  I  did  not,  I  am  as  sorry  as  if  the  original  fault  had  been 
my  fault ;  because  myself  have  seen  his  demeanor  no  less  civil  than 
he  is  excellent  in  the  quality  he  professes.  Besides,  divers  of  wor 
ship  have  reported  his  uprightness  of  dealing,  which  argues  his  hon 
esty  ;  and  his  facetious  grace  in  writing,  that  approves  his  art." 


xvi  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

Shakspcarc  was  now  twenty-eight  years  of  age;  and  this  testimony 
of  a  contemporary,  who  was  acquainted  with  him,  and  was  himself 
an  actor,  in  favor  of  his  moral  and  his  professional  excellence,  must 
be  admitted  as  of  considerable  value.  It  is  evident  that  he  had 
no\v  written  for  the  stage ;  and  before  he  entered  upon  dramatic 
composition,  we  arc  certain  that  he  had  completed,  though  he  had 
not  published,  his  two  long  and  labored  poems  of  Venus  and  Adonis, 
and  the  Rape  of  Lucrccc.  We  cannot,  therefore,  date  his  arrival 
in  the  capital  later  than  15SS,  or,  perhaps,  than  1587;  and  the  four 
or  five  years  which  interposed  between  his  departure  from  Stratford 
and  his  becoming  the  object  of  Greene's  malignant  attack,  consti 
tuted  a  busy  and  an  important  period  of  his  life.  Within  this 
term  he  had  conciliated  the  friendship  of  the  young  Thomas  Wri- 
othesly,  the  liberal,  the  high-souled,  the  romantic  Earl  of  Southamp 
ton  ;  a  friendship  which  adhered  to  him  throughout  his  life  ;  and 
he  had  risen  to  that  celebrity,  as  a  poet  and  a  dramatist,  which 
placed  him  with  the  first  wits  of  the  age,  and  subsequently  lifted 
him  to  the  notice  and  the  favor  of  Elizabeth  and  James,  as  they 
successively  sate  upon  the  throne  of  England. 

At  the  point  of  time  which  our  narrative  has  now  reached,  we 
cannot  accurately  determine  what  dramatic  pieces  had  been  com 
posed  by  him;  but  we  are  assured  that  they  were  of  sufficient  ex- 
c<  Hence  to  excite  the  envy  and  the  consequent  hostility  of  those 
who,  before  his  rising,  had  been  the  luminaries  of  the  stage.  It 
would  l.'u  gratifying  to  curiosity,  if  the  feat  were  possible,  to  adjust 
with  am  precision  the  order  in  which  his  wonderful  productions 
issued  iron)  his  brain.  But  the  attempt  has  more  than  once  been 
made,  and  never  yet  with  entire  success.  We  know  only  that  his 
connection  with  the  stage  continued  for  about  twenty  years  (though 
the  duration  even  of  this  term  cannot  be  settled  with  precision), 
and  that,  within  this  period,  he  composed,  either  partially,  as  working 
on  the  ground  of  others,  or  educing  them  altogether  from  his  own  fer- 
tiiiiv,  thirty-five  or  (if  that  wretched  thing,  Pencles,  in  consequence 
of  Dmlen's  testimony  in  favor  of  its  authenticity,  and  of  a  few 
touches  of  TIM:  (;OLI>I:.\  PK.N  being  discoverable  in  its  last  scenes, 
inu:-t  be  added  to  the  number)  thirty-six  dramas  ,  and  that  ofthe.se 
it  i<  probable  that  such  as  were  founded  on  tho  works  of  preceding 
authors  were  the  first  essays  of  his  dramatic  talent;  and  such  as 


THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XVii 

I 

were  more  perfectly  his  own,  and  are  of  the  first  sparkle  of  excel 
lence,  were  among  the  last.  While  I  should  not  hesitate,  there 
fore,  to  station  "  Pericles,"  the  three  parts  of  <f  Henry  VI."  (for 
I  cannot  see  any  reason  for  throwing  the  first  of  these  parts 
from  the  protection  of  our  author's  name),  "Love's  Labor  Lost," 
«  The  Comedy  of  Errors,"  "  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  "  King 
John,"  and  "Richard  II.,"  among  his  earliest  productions,  I  should, 
with  equal  confidence,  arrange  "Macbeth,"  "  Lear,"  "  Othello," 
"  Twelfth  Night,"  and  "  The  Tempest,"  with  his  latest,  assigning 
them  to  that  season  of  his  life,  when  his  mind  exulted  in  the  con 
scious  plenitude  of  power.  Whatever  might  be  the  order  of  suc 
cession  in  which  this  illustrious  family  of  genius  sprang  into  exist 
ence,  they  soon  attracted  notice,  and  speedily  compelled  the  homage 
of  respect  from  those  who  were  the  most  eminent  for  their  learning, 
their  talents,  or  their  rank.  Jonson,  Selden,  Beaumont,  Fletcher, 
and  Donne,  were  the  associates  and  the  intimates  of  our  Poet :  the 
Earl  of  Southampton  was  his  especial  friend :  the  Earls  of  Pembroke 
and  of  Montgomery  were  avowedly  his  admirers  and  patrons: 
Queen  Elizabeth  distinguished  him  with  her  favor;  and  her  suc 
cessor,  James,  with  his  own  hand,  honored  the  great  dramatist  with 
a  letter  of  thanks  for  the  compliment  paid  in  Macbeth  to  the  royal 
family  of  the  Stuarts.* 

The  circumstance  which  first  brought  the  two  lords  of  the  stage, 
Shakspeare  and  Jonson,  into  that  embrace  of  friendship  which  con 
tinued  indissoluble,  as  there  is  reason  to  believe,  during  the  per 
mission  of  mortality,  is  reported  to  have  been  the  kind  assistance 
given  by  the  former  to  the  latter,  when  he  was  offering  one  of  his 
plays  (Every  Man  in  his  Humor)  for  the  benefit  of  representation. 
The  manuscript,  as  it  is  said,  was  on  the  point  of  being  rejected 
and  returned  with  a  rude  answer,  when  Shakspeare,  fortunately 
glancing  his  eye  over  its  pages,  immediately  discovered  its  merit, 
and,  with  his  influence,  obtained  its  introduction  on  the  stage.  To 
this  story,  some  specious  objections  have  been  raised ;  and  there 
cannot  be  any  necessity  for  contending  for  it,  as  no  lucky  accident 
can  be  required  to  account  for  the  inducement  of  amity  between 

*  The  existence  of  this  royal  letter  of  thanks  is  asserted  on   the  authority  of  Sheffield, 
Duke  of  Buckingham,  who  saw  it  in  the  possession  of  Davenant.    The  cause  of  the  thanks 
is  assigned  on  the  most  probable  conjecture. 
VOL.    I.  0 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE. 

two  men  of  high  genius,  each  treading  the  same  brond  path  to  fame 
and  fortune,  yet  each  with  a  character  so  peculiarly  his  own,  that 
lie  might  attain  his  object  without  wounding  the  pride  or  invading 
the  interests  of  the  other.  It  has  been  generally  believed  that  the 
intellectual  superiority  of  Slmkspeare  excited  the  envy  and  the 
consequent  enmity  of  Jonson.  It  is  well  that  of  these  asserted  facts 
no  evidences  can  be  adduced.  The  friendship  of  these  great  men 
seems  to  have  been  unbroken  during  the  life  of  Shakspeare ;  and, 
on  his  death,  Jonson  made  an  offering  to  his  memory  of  high,  just, 
and  appropriate  panegyric.  He  places  him  above  not  only  the 
modern  but  the  Greek  dramatists;  and  he  professes  for  him  admi 
ration  short  only  of  idolatry.  They  who  can  discover  any  penuri- 
ousness  of  praise  in  the  surviving  poet,  must  be  gifted  with  a  very 
peculiar  vision  of  mind.  With  the  flowers  which  he  strewed  upon 
the  grave  of  his  friend,  there  certainly  was  not  blended  one  poison 
ous  or  bitter  leaf.  If,  therefore,  he  was,  as  he  is  represented  to  have 
been  by  an  impartial  and  able  judge  (Drummond  of  Hawthornden), 
"  a  great  lover  and  praiser  of  himself;  a  contemner  and  scorner  of 
others ;  jealous  of  every  word  and  action  of  those  about  him,"  &c. 
&c.,  how  can  we  otherwise  account  for  the  uninterrupted  harmony 
of  his  intercourse  with  our  Bard,  than  by  supposing  that  the  frailties 
of  his  nature  were  overruled  by  that  preeminence  of  mental  power 
in  his  friend  which  precluded  competition ;  arid  by  his  friend's 
sweetness  of  temper  and  gentleness  of  manners,  which  repressed 
every  feeling  of  hostility.  Between  Shakspeare  and  Thomas  Wri- 
othosly,  the  munificent  arid  the  noble  Earl  of  Southampton,  distin 
guished  in  history  by  his  inviolable  attachment  to  the  rash  and  the 
unfortunate  Essex,  the  friendship  was  permanent  and  ardent.  At 
its  commencement,  in  1593,  when  Shakspeare  was  twenty-nine 
years  of  age,  Southampton  was  not  more  than  nineteen  ;  and,  with 
the  love  of  general  literature,  he  was  particularly  attached  to  the 
exhibitions  of  the  theatre.  His  attention  was  first  drawn  to  Shak 
speare  by  the  Poet's  dedication  to  him  of  the  "  Venus  and  Adonis," 
that  "  first  heir,"  as  the  dedicator  calls  it,  "  of  his  invention  ;  "  and 
the  acquaintance,  once  begun  between  characters  and  hearts  like 
theirs,  would  soon  mature  into  intimacy  and  friendship.  In  the 
following  year  (150-1),  Shakspeare's  second  poem,  "The  Rape  of 
Lucrece,"  was  addressed  by  him  to  his  noble  patron  in  a  strain  of 


THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XIX 

less  distant  timidity  ;  and  we  may  infer  from  it  that  the  Poet  had 
then  obtained  a  portion  of  the  favor  which  he  sought.  That  his 
fortunes  were  essentially  promoted  by  the  munificent  patronage  of 
Southampton  cannot  reasonably  be  doubted.  We  are  told  by  Sir  Wil 
liam  Davenant,  who  surely  possessed  the  means  of  knowing  the 
fact,  that  the  peer  gave  at  one  time  to  his  favored  Dramatist  the 
magnificent  present  of  a  thousand  pounds.  This  is  rejected  by 
M alone  as  an  extravagant  exaggeration  ;  and  because  the  donation 
is  said  to  have  been  made  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  the  Poet  to 
complete  a  purchase  which  he  had  then  in  contemplation,  and 
because  no  purchase  of  an  adequate  magnitude  seems  to  have  been 
accomplished  by  him,  the  critic  treats  the  whole  stoiy  with  con 
tempt,  and  is  desirous  of  substituting  a  dedication  fee  of  one  hundred 
pounds  for  the  more  princely  liberality  which  is  attested  by  Dave 
nant.  But  surely  a  purchase  might  be  within  the  view  of  Shak- 
speare,  and  eventually  not  be  effected ;  and  then  of  course  the 
thousand  pounds  in  question  would  be  added  to  his  personal  prop 
erty  ;  where  it  would  just  complete  the  income  on  which  he  is 
reported  to  have  retired  from  the  stage.  As  to  the  incredibility  of 
the  gift  in  consequence  of  its  value,  have  we  not  witnessed  a  gift, 
made  in  the  present  day,  by  a  noble  of  the  land  to  a  mere  actor,  of 
ten  times  the  nominal  and  twice  the  effective  value  of  this  proud 
bounty  of  the  great  Earl  of  Southampton's  *  to  one  of  the  master 
spirits  of  the  human  race  ?  f 

Of  the  degree  of  patronage  and  kindness  extended  to  Shakspeare 
by  the  Earls  of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery,  we  are  altogether  igno- 

*  As  the  patron  and  the  friend  of  Shakspeare,  Thomas  Wriothesly,  Earl  of  Southampton, 
is  entitled  to  our  especial  attention  arid  respect.     But  I  cannot  admit  his  eventful  history 
into  the  text,  without  breaking  the  unity  of  my  biographical  narrative  ;  and  to  speak  of  him 
within  the  compass  of  a  note  will  be  only  to  inform  my  readers,  that  he  was  born  on  the  fith 
of  October,  1573;  that  he  was  engaged  in  the  mad  attempts  of  his  friend,  the  Earl  of  Essex, 
against  the  government  of  Elizabeth;  that,  in  consequence,  he  was  confined  during  her 
life  by  that  queen,  who  was  so  lenient  as  to  be  satisfied  with  the  blood  of  one  of  the  friends  ; 
that,  immediately  on  her  death,  he  was  liberated  by  her  successor,  not  disposed  to  adopt  the 
enmities  of  the  murderess  of  his  mother;  that  he  was  promoted  to  honors  by  the  new  sov 
ereign  ;  and   that,  finally,  being  sent  with  a  military  command  to  the  Low  Countries,  he 
caught  a  fever  from  his  son,  Lord  Wriothesly;  and,  surviving  him  only  five  days,  concluded 
his  active  and  honorable  career  of  life,  at  Bergen-op-zoom,  on  the  10th  of  November,  1C24. 
It  may  be  added,  that,  impoverished  by  his  liberalities,  he  left  his  widow  in  such  circum 
stances  as  to  call  for  the  assistance  of  the  crown. 

*  The  late  Duke  of  Northumberland  made  a  present  to  John  Keinble  of  10,OOOZ. 


\x  THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

rant ;  but  we  know,  from  the  dedication  of  his  works  to  them  by 
Hemincre  and  Condell,  that  they  had  distinguished  themselves  as 
his  admirers  and  friends.  That  he  numbered  many  more  of  the 
nobility  of  his  day  among  the  admirers  of  his  transcendent  genius, 
we  mav  consider  as  a  specious  probability.  But  we  must  not  indulge 
in  conjectures,  when  we  can  gratify  ourselves  with  the  reports  of 
tradition,  approaching  very  nearly  to  certainties.  Elizabeth,  as  it 
is  confidently  said,  honored  our  illustrious  dramatist  with  her  espe 
cial  notice  and  regard.  She  was  unquestionably  fond  of  theatric 
exhibitions  ;  and,  with  her  literary  mind  and  her  discriminating  eye, 
it  is  impossible  that  she  should  overlook — and  that,  not  overlooking, 
she  should  not  appreciate — the  man  whose  genius  formed  the  prime 
glory  of  her  reign.  It  is  affirmed  that,  delighted  with  the  character 
of  Falstaff  as  drawn  in  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.,  she  expressed  a 
wish  to  see  the  gross  and  dissolute  knight  under  the  influence  of 
love  ;  and  that  the  result  of  our  Poet's  compliance  with  the  desire 
of  his  royal  mistress,  was  "  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor."* 
Favored,  however,  as  our  Poet  seems  to  have  been  by  Elizabeth, 
and  notwithstanding  the  fine  incense  which  he  offered  to  her  vanity, 
it  does  not  appear  that  he  profited  in  any  degree  by  her  bounty. 
She  could  distinguish  and  could  smile  upon  genius ;  but  unless  it 
were  immediately  serviceable  to  her  personal  or  her  political  inter 
ests,  she  had  not  the  soul  to  reward  it.  However  inferior  to  her  in 
the  arts  of  government,  and  in  some  of  the  great  characters  of  mind, 
might  be  her  Scottish  successor,  he  resembled  her  in  his  love  of 
letters,  and  in  his  own  cultivation  of  learning.  He  was  a  scholar, 
and  even  a  poet :  his  attachment  to  the  general  cause  of  literature 
was  strong  ;  and  his  love  of  the  drama  and  the  theatre  was  particu 
larly  warm.  Before  his  accession  to  the  English  throne,  he  had 
written,  as  we  have  before  noticed,  a  letter,  with  his  own  hand,  to 


*  Animated  as  this  comedy  is  with  much  distinct  delineation  of  character,  it  cannot  be 

pronoun,  cd  to  be  unworthy  of  its  great  author.     But  it  evinces  the  difficulty  of  writing  upon 

a  prcs.-ribcd  suhjei  t,  and  of  working  with  effect  under  the  control  of  another  mind.     As  he 

irtf-d  in  th    scenes  of  Henry  IV.,  Falstaff  was  insusceptible  of  love;  and  the  egregious 

d<i|><>  of  WimNnr,  dmked  and  ciid-rellrd  a-  h<>  was,  cannot  be  the  wit  of  Eaatcheap,  or  the 

pin-si  of  Shall, ,\v,  or  the   military  commander  on  the  field  of  Shrewsbury.     But  even  the 

Phakspcare  could  not  effect  impossibilities.     He  did  what  he  could  to  revive  his 

i  FaMatr-.  Imt  tl;c  life  whi.-h  he  rcinfuscd  into  his  creature  was  not  the  vigorous  vitality 

of  .Nature;  and  lie  .,]:ir(.d  him  in  a  scene  where  he  could  not  subsist. 


THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXI 

Shakspeare,  acknowledging,  as  it  is  supposed,  the  compliment  paid 
to  him  in  the  noble  scenes  of  Macbeth ;  and  scarcely  had  the 
crown  of  England  fallen  upon  his  head,  when  he  granted  his  royal 
patent  to  our  Poet  and  his  company  of  the  Globe ;  and  thus  raised 
them  from  being  the  lord  chamberlain's  servants  to  be  the  servants 
of  the  king.  The  patent  is  dated  on  the  19th  of  May,  1603,  and 
the  name  of  William  Shakspeare  stands  second  on  the  list  of  the 
patentees.  As  the  demise  of  Elizabeth  had  occurred  on  the  24th 
of  the  preceding  March,  this  early  attention  of  James  to  the  com 
pany  of  the  Globe  may  be  regarded  as  highly  complimentary  to 
Shakspeare's  theatre,  and  as  strongly  demonstrative  of  the  new 
sovereign's  partiality  for  the  drama.  But  James's  patronage  of  our 
Poet  was  not  in  any  other  way  beneficial  to  his  fortunes.  If  Eliza 
beth  were  too  parsimonious  for  an  effective  patron,  by  his  profusion 
on  his  pleasures  and  his  favorites,  James  soon  became  too  needy  to 
possess  the  means  of  bounty  for  the  reward  of  talents  and  of  learn 
ing.  Honor,  in  short,  was  all  that  Shakspeare  gained  by  the  favor 
of  two  successive  sovereigns,  each  of  them  versed  in  literature, 
each  of  them  fond  of  the  drama,  and  each  of  them  capable  of 
appreciating  the  transcendency  of  his  genius. 

It  would  be  especially  gratifying  to  us  to  exhibit  to  our  readers  some 
portion  at  least  of  the  personal  history  of  this  illustrious  man  during 
his  long  residence  in  the  capital ; — to  announce  the  names  and 
characters  of  his  associates,  a  few  of  which  only  we  can  obtain 
from  Fuller  ;  to  delineate  his  habits  of  life ;  to  record  his  convivial 
wit ;  to  commemorate  the  books  which  he  read ;  and  to  number  his 
compositions  as  they  dropped  in  succession  from  his  pen.  But  no 
power  of  this  nature  is  indulged  to  us.  All  that  active  and  efficient 
portion  of  his  mortal  existence,  which  constituted  considerably  more 
than  a  third  part  of  it,  is  an  unknown  region,  not  to  be  penetrated 
by  our  most  zealous  and  intelligent  researches.  It  may  be  regard 
ed  by  us  as  a  kind  of  central  Africa,  which  our  reason  assures  us  to 
be  glowing  with  fertility  and  alive  with  population  ;  but  which  is 
abandoned  in  our  maps,  from  the  ignorance  of  our  geographers,  to 
the  death  of  barrenness,  and  the  silence  of  sandy  desolation.  By 
the  Stratford  register  we  can  ascertain  that  his  only  son,  Ilamnet, 
was  buried,  in  the  twelfth  year  of  his  age,  on  the  llth  of  August, 
1596 ;  and  that,  after  an  interval  of  nearly  eleven  years,  his  oldest 


.\.\ii  THE    LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

daughter,  Susannah,  was  married  to  John  Hall,  a  physician,  on  the 
f>th  of  June,  1(307.  With  the  exception  of  two  or  three  purchases 
made  bv  him  at  Stratford,  one  of  them  being  that  of  New  Place, 
which  lie  repaired  and  ornamented  for  his  future  residence,  the  two 
entries  which  we  have  now  extracted  from  the  register,  are  posi- 
tivrly  all  that  we  can  relate  with  confidence  of  our  great  Poet  and 
his  fnnily,  during  the  long  term  of  his  connection  with  the  theatre 
and  the  metropolis.  We  may  fairly  conclude,  indeed,  that  he  was 
pros-lit  at  each  of  the  domestic  events  recorded  by  the  register  ; 
that  he  attended  his  son  to  the  grave,  and  his  daughter  to  the  altar. 
AVe  may  believe  also,  from  its  great  probability,  even  on  the  testi 
mony  of  Aubrey,  that  he  paid  an  annual  visit  to  his  native  town  ; 
whence  his  family  were  never  removed,  and  which  he  seems  always 
to  have  contemplated  as  the  resting-place  of  his  declining  age.  He 
probably  had  nothing  more  than  a  lodging  in  London,  and  this  he 
might  occasionally  change  ;  but  in  1598,  he  is  said  to  have  lived 
somewhere  near  to  the  Bear-Garden,  in  Southwark. 

In  1606,  James  procured  from  the  continent  a  large  importation 
of  mulberry-trees,  with  a  view  to  the  establishment  of  the  silk  man 
ufacture  in  his  dominions  ;  and,  either  in  this  year  or  in  the  follow 
ing,  Shakspeare  enriched  his  garden  at  New  Place  with  one  of  these 
exotic,  and,  at  that  time,  very  rare  trees.  This  plant  of  his  hand 
took  root,  and  flourished  till  the  year  1752,  when  it  was  destroyed 
by  the  barbarous  axe  of  one  Francis  Gastrell,  a  clergyman, 
into  whose  worse  than  Gothic  hands  New  Place  had  most  unfor 
tunately  fallen. 

As  we  are  not  told  the  precise  time  when  Shakspeare  retired 
from  the  stage  and  the  metropolis  to  enjoy  the  tranquillity  of  life  in 
his  native  town,  we  cannot  prel-'rl  to  determine  it.  As  lie  is  said, 
however,  to  have;  passed  some  years  in  his  establishment  at  New 
Place,  we  may  conclude  that  his  removal  took  place  either  in  1612 
<>r  in  101*5,  when  he  was  yet  in  the  vigor  of  life,  being  not  more 
than  forty-eight  or  forty-nine  years  old.  lie  had  ceased,  as  it  is 
probable,  to  tread  the  stage  as  an  actor  at  an  earlier  period;  for  in 
the  list  of  actors,  prefixed  to  the  Volpone  of  R.  Jonson,  performed 
at  the  Globe  theatre,  and  published  in  1605,  the  name  of  William 
Shakspeare  i<  not  to  be  found.  However  versed  he  might  be  in  the 
science  of  -u-fniir  (;1,,<1  that  he  was  versed  in  it  we  are  assured  by 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXlli 

his  directions  to  the  players  in  Hamlet),  and  however  well  he  might 
acquit  himself  in  some  of  the  subordinate  characters  of  the  drama, 
it  does  not  appear  that  he  ever  rose  to  the  higher  honors  of  his 
profession.  But  if  they  were  above  his  attainment,  they  seem  not 
to  have  been  the  objects  of  his  ambition ;  for  by  one  of  his  sonnets* 
we  find  that  he  lamented  the  fortune  which  had  devoted  him  to  the 
stage,  and  that  he  considered  himself  as  degraded  by  such  a  public 
exhibition.  The  time  was  not  yet  come  when  actors  were  to  be 
the  companions  of  princes  ;  when  their  lives,  as  of  illustrious  men, 
were  to  be  written;  and  when  statues  were  to  be  erected  to  them 
by  public  contribution  ! 

The  amount  of  the  fortune  on  which  Shakspeare  retired  from 
the  busy  world,  has  been  the  subject  of  some  discussion.  By  Gildon, 
who  forbears  to  state  his  authority,  this  fortune  is  valued  at  300/.  a 
year ;  and  by  Malone,  who,  calculating  our  Poet's  real  property  from 
authentic  documents,  assigns  a  random  value  to  his  personal,  it  is 
reduced  to  200Z.  Of  these  two  valuations  of  Shakspeare's  property, 
we  conceive  that  Gildon's  approaches  the  more  nearly  to  the  truth  ; 
for  if  to  Malone's  conjectural  estimate  of  the  personal  property,  of 
which  he  professes  to  be  wholly  ignorant,  be  added  the  thousand 
pounds  given  by  Southampton  (an  act  of  munificence  of  which 
we  entertain  not  a  doubt),  the  precise  total,  as  money  then  bore  an 
interest  of  107.  per  cent.,  of  the  three  hundred  pounds  a  year  will 
be  made  up.  On  the  smallest  of  these  incomes,  however,  when 
money  was  at  least  five  times  its  present  value,  might  our  Poet  pos 
sess  the  comforts  and  the  liberalities  of  life ;  and  in  the  society  of 
his  family,  and  of  the  neighboring  gentry,  conciliated  by  the  ami- 
ableness  of  his  manners  and  the  pleasantness  of  his  conversation, 
he  seems  to  have  passed  his  few  remaining  days  in  the  enjoyment 
of  tranquillity  and  respect.  So  exquisite,  indeed,  appears  to  have 
been  his  relish  of  the  quiet,  which  was  his  portion  within  the  walls 
of  New  Place,  that  it  induced  a  complete  oblivion  of  all  that  had 
engaged  his  attention,  and  had  aggrandized  his  name,  in  the  prece 
ding  scenes  of  his  life.  Without  any  regard  to  his  literary  fame, 
either  present  or  to  come,  he  saw  with  perfect  unconcern  some  of  his 
immortal  works  brought,  mutilated  and  deformed,  before  the  world, 
in  surreptitious  copies ;  and  others  of  them,  with  an  equal  indif- 

*  See  Sonnet  cxi. 


xxiv  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

fercnce  to  their  fate,  he  permitted  to  remain  in  their  unrevised  or 
interpolated  MSS.  in  the  hands  of  the  theatric  prompter.  There  is 
not,  probably,  in  the  whole  compass  of  literary  history,  such  another 
instance  of  a  proud  superiority  to  what  has  been  called  by  a  rival 
genius, 

"The  last  infirmity  of  noble  rninds," 

as  that  which  was  now  exhibited  by  our  illustrious  Dramatist  and 
Poet.  He  seemed 

"  As  if  he  could  not  or  he  would  not  find 
How  much  his  worth  transcended  all  his  kind."* 

With  a  privilege  rarely  indulged  even  to  the  sons  of  genius,  he 
had  produced  his  admirable  works  without  any  throes  or  labor  of  the 
mind  :  they  had  obtained  for  him  all  that  he  had  asked  from  them 
— the  patronage  of  the  great,  the  applause  of  the  witty,  and  a  com 
petency  of  fortune  adequate  to  the  moderation  of  his  desires. 
Having  fulfilled,  or,  possibly,  exceeded  his  expectations,  they  had 
discharged  their  duty;  and  he  threw  them  altogether  from  his 
thought ;  and  whether  it  were  their  destiny  to  emerge  into  renown, 
or  to  perish  in  the  drawer  of  a  manager  ;  to  be  brought  to  light  in  a 
state  of  integrity,  or  to  revisit  the  glimpses  of  the  moon  with  a  thou 
sand  mortal  murders  on  their  head,  engaged  no  part  of  his  solicitude 
or  interest.  They  had  given  to  him  the  means  of  easy  life,  and  he 
nought  from  them  nothing  more.  This  insensibility  in  our  Author  to 
the  offspring  of  his  brain  may  be  the  subject  of  our  wonder  or  admi 
ration  ;  but  its  consequences  have  been  calamitous  to  those  who  in 
after  times  have  hung  with  delight  over  his  pages.  On  the  intellect 
and  the  temper  of  these  ill-fated  mortals  it  lias  inflicted  a  heavy  load 
of  punishment  in  the  dulness  and  the  arrogance  of  commentators  and 
illustrators.  Some  superior  men,  it  is  true,  have  enlisted  themselves  in 
tho  cause  of  Shakspeare.  Rowe,  Pope,  Warburton,  Hanmer,  and 
Johnson,  have  successively  been  his  editors,  and  have  professed  to 
irives  his  scones  in  their  original  purity  to  the  world.  But  from  some 
cause  or  other,  which  it  is  not  our  present  business  to  explore,  each  of 
those  editors,  in  his  turn,  has  disappointed  the  just  expectations  of 
the  public  ;  and,  with  an  inversion  of  Nature's  <joneral  rule,  the 
little  men  have  finally  prevailed  against  the  groat.  The  blockheads 


THE  LIFE  OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  xxv 

have  hooted  the  wits  from  the  field ;  and,  attaching  themselves  to 
the  mighty  body  of  Shakspeare,  like  barnacles  to  the  hull  of  a  proud 
man-of-war,  they  are  prepared  to  plough  with  him  the  vast  ocean 
of  time;  and  thus,  by  the  only  means  in  their  power,  to  snatch 
themselves  from  that  oblivion  to  which  Nature  had  devoted  them. 
It  would  be  unjust,  however,  to  defraud  these  gentlemen  of  their 
proper  praise.  They  have  read  for  men  of  talents ;  and,  by  their 
gross  labor  in  the  mine,  they  have  accumulated  materials  to  be 
arranged  and  polished  by  the  hand  of  the  finer  artist. — Some  apol 
ogy  may  be  necessary  for  this  short  digression  from  the  more  im 
mediate  subject  of  my  biography.  But  the  three  or  four  years, 
which  were  passed  by  Shakspeare  in  the  peaceful  retirement  of 
New  Place,  are  not  distinguished  by  any  traditionary  anecdote  de 
serving  of  our  record  ;  and  the  chasm  may  not  improperly  be  supplied 
with  whatever  stands  in  contiguity  with  it.  I  should  pass  in  silence, 
as  too  trifling  for  notice,  the  story  of  our  Poet's  extempore  and 
jocular  epitaph  on  John  Combe,  a  rich  townsman  of  Stratford,  and 
a  noted  money-lender,  if  my  readers  would  not  object  to  me  that  I 
had  omitted  an  anecdote  which  had  been  honored  with  a  place  in 
every  preceding  biography  of  my  Author.  As  the  circumstance  is 
related  by  Rowe,  "  In  a  pleasant  conversation  among  their  common 
friends,  Mr.  Combe  told  Shakspeare,  in  a  laughing  manner,  that  he 
fancied  he  intended  to  write  his  epitaph  if  he  happened  to  outlive 
him ;  and,  since  he  could  not  know  what  might  be  said  of  him 
when  he  was  dead,  he  desired  it  might  be  done  immediately ;  upon 
which  Shakspeare  gave  him  these  four  verses : — 

'  Ten  in  the  hundred  lies  here  ingraved  : 
'Tis  a  hundred  to  ten  his  soul  is  not  saved. 
If  any  man  ask,  Who  lies  in  this  tomb? 
Ho  !  Ho  !  quoth  the  devil,  'tis  my  John  a  Combe.' 

But  the  sharpness  of  the  satire  is  said  to  have  stung  the  man  so 
severely  that  he  never  forgave  it."  By  Aubrey  the  story  is  differently 
told ;  and  the  lines  in  question,  with  some  alterations,  which  evi 
dently  make  them  worse,  are  said  to  have  been  written  after 
Combe's  death.  Steevens  and  Malone  discredit  the  whole  tale. 
The  two  first  lines,  as  given  to  us  by  Rowe,  are  unquestionably  not 
Shakspeare's ;  and  that  any  lasting  enmity  subsisted  between  these 
two  burghers  of  Stratford  is  disproved  by  the  respective  wills  of  the 

VOL.    I.  D 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE. 

ties,  John  Combe  bequeathing  five  pounds  to  our  Poet,  and  our 
Foot  leaving  his  sword  to  John  Combe's  nephew  and  residuary  leg 
atee,  John  Combe  himself  being  at  that  time  deceased.  With  the 
two  commentators  above  mentioned,  I  am  inclined,  therefore,  on 
the  whole,  to  reject  the  story  as  a  fabrication;  though  I  cannot, 
with  Stccvens,  convict  the  lines  of  malignity;  or  think,  with  him 
and  with  Malone,  that  the  character  of  Shakspeare,  on  the  suppo 
sition  of  his  being  their  author,  could  require  any  labored  vindi 
cation  to  clear  it  from  stain.  In  the  anecdote,  as  related  by  Howe, 
I  i- -ni  sec  nothing  but  a  whimsical  sally  breaking  from  the  mind  of 
one  friend,  and  of  a  nature  to  excite  a  good-humored  smile  on  the 
cheek  of  the  other.  In  Aubrey's  hands,  the  transaction  assumes  a 
somewhat  darker  complexion ;  and  the  worse  verses,  as  written 
after  the  death  of  their  subject,  may  justly  be  branded  as  malevo 
lent,  and  as  discovering  enmity  in  the  heart  of  their  writer.  But 
I  have  dwelt  too  long  upon  a  topic  which,  in  truth,  is  undeserving 
of  a  syllabi?  and  if  I  were  to  linger  on  it  any  longer,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  exhibiting  Malone's  reasons  for  his  preference  of  Aubrey's 
copy  of  the  epitaph  to  Rowe's,  and  his  discovery  of  the  propriety 
and  beauty  of  the  single  Ho  in  the  last  line  of  Aubrey's,  as  Ho  is 
the  abbreviation  of  Hobgoblin,  one  of  the  names  of  Robin  Good- 
fellow,  the  fairy  servant  of  Oberon,  my  readers  would  have  just 
cause  to  complain  of  me,  as  sporting  with  their  time  and  their 
patience. 

On  the  ninth  of  July,  1614,   Stratford  was  ravaged  by  a  fire, 
which  destroyed  fifty-four  dwelling-houses,  besides  barns  and  out- 
It  abstained,  however,  from  the  property  of  Shakspeare ; 
and  he  had  onlv  to  commiserate  the  losses  of  his  neighbors. 

O 

With  his  various  powers  of  pleasing;  his  wit  and  his  humor;  the 
gentleness  of  his  manners;  the  flow  of  his  spirits  and  his  fancy; 
the  variety  of  anecdote  with  which  his  mind  must  have  been  stored  ; 
!;i-;  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  his  intimacy  with  man,  in  every 
gradation  of  society,  from  the  prompter  of  a  playhouse  to  the 
poer  and  the  sovereign,  Shakspeare  must  have  been  a  delightful 
— iiny,  a  fascinating  companion  ;  and  his  acquaintance  must  ne- 
cossirily  have  been  courted  by  all  the  prime  inhabitants  of  Strat- 
f  jrd  and  it<  vicinity.  But  over  this,  as  over  the  preceding  periods 
of  his  life,  brood  silence  and  oblivion;  and  in  our  total  io-norance 


THE   LIFE  OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  xxvii 

of  his  intimacies  and  friendships,  we  must  apply  to  our  imagination 
to  furnish  out  his  convivial  board,  where  intellect  presided,  and 
delight,  with  admiration,  gave  the  applause. 

On  the  2d  of  February,  1615-16,  he  married  his  youngest  daugh 
ter,  Judith,  then  in  the  thirty-first  year  of  her  age,  to  Thomas 
Quiney,  a  vintner  in  Stratford ;  and  on  the  25th  of  the  succeeding 
month,  he  executed  his  will.  He  was  then,  as  it  would  appear,  in 
the  full  vigor  and  enjoyment  of  life;  and  we  are  not  informed  that 
his  constitution  had  been  previously  weakened  by  the  attack  of  any 
malady.  But  his  days,  or  rather  his  hours,  were  now  all  number 
ed  ;  for  he  breathed  his  last  on  the  23d  of  the  ensuing  April,  on 
that  anniversary  of  his  birth  which  completed  his  fifty-second  year. 
It  would  be  gratifying  to  our  curiosity  to  know  something  of  the 
disease,  which  thus  prematurely  terminated  the  life  of  this  illustrious 
man ;  but  the  secret  is  withheld  from  us ;  and  it  would  be  idle  to 
endeavor  to  obtain  it.  We  may  be  certain  that  Dr.  Hall,  who  was 
a  physician  of  considerable  eminence,  attended  his  father-in-law  in 
his  last  illness ;  and  Dr.  Hall  kept  a  register  of  all  the  remarkable 
cases,  with  their  symptoms  and  treatment,  which,  in  the  course  of 
his  practice,  had  fallen  under  his  observation.  This  curious  MS., 
which  had  escaped  the  enmity  of  time,  was  obtained  by  Malone  ; 
but  the  recorded  cases  in  it  most  unfortunately  began  with  the  year 
1617;  and  the  preceding  part  of  the  register,  which  most  probably 
had  been  in  existence,  could  no  where  be  found.  The  mortal 
complaint,  therefore,  of  William  Shakspeare,  is  likely  to  remain  for 
ever  unknown ;  and  as  darkness  had  closed  upon  his  path  through 
life,  so  darkness  now  gathered  round  his  bed  of  death,  awfully  to 
cover  it  from  the  eyes  of  succeeding  generations. 

On  the  25th  of  April,  1616,  two  days  after  his  decease,  he  was 
buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  church  of  Stratford  ;  and  at  some 
period  within  the  seven  subsequent  years  (for  in  1623  it  is  noticed 
in  the  verses  of  Leonard  Digges),  a  monument  was  raised  to  his 
memory,  either  by  the  respect  of  his  townsmen  or  by  the  piety  of 
relations.  It  represents  the  Poet  with  a  countenance  of  thought, 
resting  on  a  cushion,  and  in  the  act  of  writing.  It  is  placed  under 
an  arch,  between  two  Corinthian  columns  of  black  marble,  the 
capitals  and  bases  of  which  are  gilt.  The  face  is  said,  but,  as  far 
as  I  can  find,  not  on  any  adequate  authority,  to  have  been  modelled 


xxviii  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

from  the  face  of  the  deceased ;  and  the  whole  was  painted,  to  bring 
the  imitation  nearer  to  nature.  The  face  and  the  hands  wore  the 
carnation  of  life  :  the  eyes  wore  light  hazel:  the  hair  and  beard 
were  auburn  :  a  black  irown,  without  sleeves,  hung  loosely  over  a 
scarlet  doublet.  The  cushion,  in  its  upper  part,  was  green  ;  in  its 
lower,  crimson  ;  and  the  tassels  were  of  gold  color.  This  certainly 
was  not  in  the  high  classical  taste  ;  though  we  may  learn  from 
Pausanias  that  statues  in  Greece  were  sometimes  colored  after  life; 
but  as  it  was  the  work  of  contemporary  hands,  and  was  intended, 
by  those  who  knew  the  Poet,  to  convey  to  posterity  some  resem 
blance  of  his  lineaments  and  dress,  it  was  a  monument  of  rare  value  , 
and  the  tastelossnoss  of  Malone,  who  caused  all  its  tints  to  be  ob 
literated  with  a  daubing  of  white  lead,  cannot  be  sufficiently  ridi 
culed  and  condemned.  Its  material  is  a  species  of  freestone;  and 
as  the  chisel  of  the  sculptor  was  most  probably  under  the  guidance 
of  Dr.  Hall,  it  bore  some  promise  of  likeness  to  the  mighty  dead. 
Immediately  below  the  cushion  is  the  following  distich  : — 

Jiulicio  Pyliumj  genio  Socratem;  arte  Maronem 
Terra  tegitj  populus  mceret  j  Olympus  habet. 

On  a  tablet  underneath  are  inscribed  these  lines  : — 

Stay,  passenger  ;  why  dost  thoti  go  so  fast? 
Head,  if  thou  canst,  whom  envious  death  has  placed 
Within  this  monument — Shakspeare  j  with  whom 
Quii'k  Nature  died  5  whose  name  doth  deck  the  tomb 
Far  more  than  cost ;  since  all  that  he  hath  writ 
Leaves  living  art  but  page  to  serve  his  wit : — 

arid  the  flat  stone,  covering  the  grave,  holds  out,  in  very  irregular 
characters,  a  supplication  to  the  reader,  with  the  promise  of  a  bless 
ing,  and  the  menace  of  a  curse  : — 

Good  friend  !  for  Jesus'  sake  forbear 
To  dig  the  dust  inclosed  here. 
I.k'st.  hi;  the  man  that  spares  these  stones; 
And  cursed  be  he  that  moves  my  bones. 

The  hist  of  these  inscriptions  may  have  been  written  by  Shak- 
speare  himself,  under  the  apprehension  of  his  bones  being  tumbled, 
with  those  of  many  of  his  townsmen,  into  the  charnel-house  of  the 
parish.  But  his  dust  has  continued  unviolated,  and  is  likely  to 
remain  in  its  holy  repose  till  the  last  awful  scene  of  our  perishable 
globe.  It  were  to  be  wished  that  the  two  preceding  inscriptions 


THE    LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXIX 

were  more  worthy  than  they  are  of  the  tomb  to  which  they  are  at 
tached.  It  would  be  gratifying  if  we  could  give  any  faith  to  the 
tradition,  which  asserts  that  the  bust  of  this  monument  was  sculp 
tured  from  a  cast  moulded  on  the  face  of  the  departed  Poet ;  for 
then  we  might  assure  ourselves  that  we  possess  one  authentic  re 
semblance  of  this  preeminently  intellectual  mortal.  But  the  cast, 
if  taken,  must  have  been  taken  immediately  after  his  death ;  and 
we  know  neither  at  whose  expense  the  monument  was  constructed, 
nor  by  whose  hand  it  was  executed,  nor  at  what  precise  time  it 
was  erected.  It  may  have  been  wrought  by  the  artist,  acting  under 
the  recollections  of  the  Shakspeare  family,  into  some  likeness  of  the 
great  townsman  of  Stratford  ;  and,  on  this  probability,  we  may  con 
template  it  with  no  inconsiderable  interest.  I  cannot,  however, 
persuade  myself  that  the  likeness  could  have  been  strong.  The 
forehead,  indeed,  is  sufficiently  spacious  and  intellectual ;  but  there 
is  a  disproportionate  length  in  the  under  part  of  the  face;  the 
mouth  is  weak ;  and  the  whole  countenance  is  heavy  and  inert. 
Not  having  seen  the  monument  itself,  I  can  speak  of  it  only  from 
its  numerous  copies  by  the  graver  ;  and  by  these  it  is  possible  that 
I  may  be  deceived.  But  if  we  cannot  rely  on  the  Stratford  bust 
for  a  resemblance  of  our  immortal  Dramatist,  where  are  we  to  look 
with  any  hope  of  finding  a  trace  of  his  features  1  It  is  highly  prob 
able  that  no  portrait  of  him  was  painted  during  his  life ;  and  it  is 
certain  that  no  portrait  of  him,  with  an  incontestable  claim  to  gen 
uineness,  is  at  present  in  existence.  The  fairest  title  to  authenticity 
seems  to  be  assignable  to  that  which  is  called  the  Chandos  por 
trait,  and  is  now  in  the  collection  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  at 
Stowe.  The  possession  of  this  picture  can  be  distinctly  traced  up 
to  Betterton  and  Davenaot.  Through  the  hands  of  successive 
purchasers,  it  became  the  property  of  Mr.  Robert  Keck.  On  the 
marriage  of  the  heiress  of  the  Keck  family,  it  passed  to  Mr.  Nicholl, 
of  Colney-Hatch,  in  Middlesex :  on  the  union  of  this  gentleman's 
daughter  with  the  Duke  of  Chandos,  it  found  a  place  in  that  noble 
man's  collection  ;  and,  finally,  by  the  marriage  of  the  present  Duke 
of  Buckingham  with  the  Lady  Anne  Elizabeth  Brydges,  the  heiress 
of  the  house  of  Chandos,  it  has  settled  in  the  gallery  of  Stowe. 
This  was  pronounced  by  the  late  Earl  of  Orford  (Horace  Walpole), 
as  we  are  informed  by  Mr.  Granger,  to  be  the  only  original  picture 


\.\.\  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE. 

of  Shakspeare.  But  two  others,  if  not  more,  contend  with  it  for  the 
palm  of  originality  ;  one,  which,  in  consequence  of  its  having  been 
in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Felton,  of  Drayton,  in  the  county  of  Salop, 
from  whom  it  was  purchased  by  the  Boydells,  has  been  called  the 
Felton  Shakspeare  :  and  one,  a  miniature,  which,  by  some  connec 
tion,  as  I  believe,  with  the  family  of  its  proprietors,  found  its  way 
into  the  cabinet  of  the  late  Sir  James  Lamb,  more  generally,  per 
haps,  known  by  his  original  name  of  James  Bland  Burgess.  The 
first  of  these  pictures  was  reported  to  have  been  found  at  the  Boar's 
Head,  in  Easteheap,  one  of  the  favorite  haunts,  as  it  was  erroneously 
called,  of  Shakspeare  and  his  companions;  and  the  second  by  a 
tradition,  in  the  family  of  Somervile,  the  poet,  is  affirmed  to  have 
been  drawn  from  Shakspeare,  who  sat  for  it  at  the  pressing  in 
stance  of  a  Somervile,  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends.  But  the 
genuineness  of  neither  of  these  pictures  can  be  supported  under  a 
rigid  investigation ;  and  their  pretensions  must  yield  to  those  of 
another  rival  portrait  of  our  Poet,  which  was  once  in  the  possession 
of  Mr.  Jennens,  of  Gopsal,  in  Leicestershire,  and  is  now  the  property 
of  that  liberal  and  literary  nobleman,  the  Duke  of  Somerset.  For 
the  authenticity  of  this  portrait,  attributed  to  the  pencil  of  Cornelius 
Jansenn,  Mr.  Boaden  *  contends  with  much  zeal  and  ingenuity. 
Knowing  that  some  of  the  family  of  Lord  Southampton,  Shakspeare's 
especial  friend  and  patron,  had  been  painted  by  Jansenn,  Mr. 
Boaden  speciously  infers  that,  at  the  earl's  request,  his  favorite 
Dramatist  had,  likewise,  allowed  his  face  to  this  painter's  imitation; 
and  that  the  Gopsal  portrait,  the  result  of  the  artist's  skill  on  this 
occasion,  had  obtained  a  distinguished  place  in  the  picture-gallery 
of  the  noble  earl.  This,  however,  is  only  unsupported  assertion, 
and  the  mere  idleness  of  conjecture.  It  is  not  pretended  to  be  as 
certained  that  the  Gopsal  portrait  was  ever  in  the  possession  of 
Shakspeare's  illustrious  friend  ;  and  its  transfers,  durin"1  the  him- 

i  O 

dred  and  thirty-:-;even  years  which  interposed  between  the  death 
of  Southampton,  in  1024,  and  the  time  of  its  emerging  from  dark 
ness  at  Gopsal,  in  1761 ,  are  not  made  the  subjects  even  of  a  random 
guess.  On  such  evidence,  therefore,  if  evidence  it  can  be  called,  it 
is  impossible  for  us  to  receive,  with  Mr.  Boaden,  the  Gopsal  picture 

*  An  Iiujiiiry  into  the  Authenticity  of  Pictures  :md  Prints  offered  as  Portraits  of  Shak- 
Bpcare,  p.  07—80 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXXI 

as  a  genuine  portrait  of  Shakspeare.  We  are  now  assured  that  it 
was  from  the  Chandos  portrait  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  copied  the 
painting  which  he  presented  to  Dryden,  a  poet  inferior  only  to  him 
whose  portrait  constituted  the  gift.  The  beautiful  verses,  with 
which  the  poet  requited  the  kind  attention  of  the  painter,  are  very 
generally  known ;  but  many  may  require  to  be  informed  that  the 
present,  made  on  this  occasion  by  the  great  master  of  the  pencil  to 
the  greater  master  of  the  pen,  is  still  in  existence,  preserved,  no 
doubt,  by  the  respect  felt  to  be  due  to  the  united  names  of  Knel 
ler,  Dryden,  and  Shakspeare  ;  and  is  now  in  the  collection  of  Earl 
Fitzwilliam  at  Wentworth  Castle.*  The  original  painting,  from 
which  Droeshout  drew  the  copy  for  his  engraving,  prefixed  to  the 
first,  folio  edition  of  our  Poet's  dramas,  has  not  yet  been  discovered ; 
and  I  feel  persuaded  that  no  original  painting  ever  existed  for  his 
imitation ;  but  that  the  artist  worked  in  this  instance  from  his  own 
recollection,  assisted  probably  by  the  suggestions  of  the  Poet's 
theatric  friends.  We  are,  indeed,  strongly  of  opinion  that  Shak 
speare,  remarkable,  as  he  seems  to  have  been,  for  a  lowly  estimate 
of  himself,  and  for  a  carelessness  of  all  personal  distinction,  would 
not  readily  submit  his  face  to  be  a  painter's  study,  to  the  loss  of 
hours,  which  he  might  more  usefully  or  more  pleasurably  assign 
to  reading,  to  composition,  or  to  conviviality.  If  any  sketch  of  his 
features  was  made  during  his  life,  it  was  most  probably  taken  by 
some  rapid  and  unprofessional  pencil,  when  the  Poet  was  unaware 
of  it,  or,  taken  by  surprise,  and  exposed  by  it  to  no  inconvenience, 
was  not  disposed  to  resist  it.  We  are  convinced  that  no  authentic 
portrait  of  this  great  man  has  yet  been  produced,  or  is  likely  to  be 
discovered ;  and  that  we  must  not  therefore  hope  to  be  gratified 
with  any  thing  which  we  can  contemplate  with  confidence  as  a 
faithful  representation  of  his  countenance.  The  head  of  the 
statue,  executed  by  Scheemaker,  and  erected,  in  1741,  to  the  honor 
of  our  Poet  in  Westminster  Abbey,  was  sculptured  after  a  mezzo- 
tinto,  scraped  by  Simon  nearly  twenty  years  before,  and  said  to  be 
copied  from  an  original  portrait  by  Zoust.  But  as  this  artist  was  not 


*  1  derive  my  knowledge  on  this  topic  from  Malone  ;  for  till  I  saw  the  fact  asserted  in  his 
page,  I  was  not  aware  that  the  picture  in  question  had  been  preserved  amid  the  wreck  of 
poor  Dryden's  property.  On  the  authority  also  of  Malone  and  of  Mr.  Boaden,  I  speak  of  Sir 
Godfrey's  present  to  Dryden  as  of  a  copy  from  the  Chandos  portrait. 


xxxii  THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE. 

known  by  any  of  his  productions  in  England  till  the  year  1657,  no 
original  portrait  of  Shakspeare  could  be  drawn  by  his  pencil ;  and, 
consequently,  the  marble  chiselled  by  Scheemaker,  under  the  di 
rection  of  Lord  Burlington,  Pope,  and  Mead,  cannot  lay  any  claim 
to  an  authorized  resemblance  to  the  man  for  whom  it  was  wrought. 
We  must  be  satisfied,  therefore,  with  knowing,  on  the  authority  of 
Aubrey,  that  our  Poet  "was  a  handsome,  well-shaped  man;"  and 
our  imagination  must  supply  the  expansion  of  his  forehead,  the 
sparkle  and  Hash  of  his  eyes,  the  sense  and  good-temper  playing 
round  his  mouth,  the  intellectuality  and  the  benevolence  mantling 
over  his  whole  countenance. 

It  is  well  that  we  are  better  acquainted  with  the  rectitude  of  his 
morals  than  with  the  symmetry  of  his  features.  To  the  integrity  of 
his  heart — the  gentleness  and  benignity  of  his  manners — we  have 
the  positive  testimony  of  Chettle  and  Ben  Jonson  ;  the  former  of 
whom  seems  to  have  been  drawn,  by  our  Poet's  good  and  amiable 
qualities,  from  the  faction  of  his  dramatic  enemies;  and  the  latter, 
in  his  love  and  admiration  of  the  man,  to  have  lost  all  his  natural 
jealousy  of  the  successful  competitor  for  the  poetic  palm.  I  have 
already  cited  Chettle  :  let  me  now  cite  Jonson,  from  whose  pages 
much  more  of  a  similar  nature  might  be  adduced.  "  I  loved,"  he 
says  in  his  'Discoveries,'  "I  loved  the  man,  and  do  honor  his 
memory,  on  this  side  idolatry,  as  much  as  any.  He  was,  indeed, 
honest,  of  an  open  and  free  nature ;  had  an  excellent  fancy,  brave 
notions,  and  irentle  expressions,"  &,c.  &,c.  When  Jonson  apostro 
phizes  his  deceased  friend,  he  calls  him  "  My  gentle  Shakspeare;  " 
and  the  title  of"  the  sweet  swan  of  Avon,"  so  generally  given  to  him, 
after  the  example  of  Jonson,  by  his  contemporaries,  seems  to  have 
1" en  Lfiven  with  reference  as  much  to  the  suavity  of  his  temper  as 
to  the  harmony  of  his  verse.  In  their  dedication  of  his  works  to 
the  Earls  of  Pembroke  and  Montgomery,  his  fellows,  Ileminge  and 
C.'ondell,  profess  that  their  great  object  in  their  publication  was, 
"  only  to  keep  the  memory  of  so  worthy  a  friend  and  fellow  alive  as 
was  our  Shakspeare ;  "  and  their  Preface  to  the  public  appears 
evidently  to  have  been  dictated  by  their  personal  and  affectionate 
attachment  to  their  departed  friend.  If  we  wish  for  any  further 
evidence  in  the  support  of  the  moral  character  of  Shakspeare,  we 
may  find  it  in  the  friendship  of  Southampton  ;  we  may  extract  it 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXXlli 

from  the  pages  of  his  immortal  works  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  much 
overpraised  Preface,  seems  to  have  taken  a  view  very  different 
from  ours  of  the  morality  of  our  author's  scenes.  He  says,  "  His 
(Shakspeare's)  first  defect  is  that  to  which  may  be  imputed  most  of 
the  evil  in  books  or  in  men.  He  sacrifices  virtue  to  convenience, 
and  is  so  much  more  careful  to  please  than  to  instruct,  that  he 
seems  to  write  without  any  moral  purpose.  From  his  writino-s, 
indeed,  a  system  of  moral  duty  may  be  selected,"  (indeed!)  "  but 
his  precepts  and  axioms  drop  casually  from  him ; "  (Would  the 
preface-writer  have  wished  the  Dramatist  to  give  a  connected  trea 
tise  on  ethics,  like  the  Offices  of  Cicero  ?)  "he  makes  no  just  distri 
bution  of  good  or  evil,  nor  is  always  careful  to  show  in  the  virtuous 
a  disapprobation  of  the  wicked  :  he  carries  his  persons  indifferently 
through  right  and  wrong;  and  at  the  close  dismisses  them  without 
further  care,  and  leaves  their  examples  to  operate  by  chance.  This 
fault  the  barbarity  of  the  age  cannot  extenuate ;  for  it  is  always  a 
writer's  duty  to  make  the  world  better,  and  justice  is  a  virtue  inde 
pendent  on  time  or  place."  Why  this  common-place  on  justice  should 
be  compelled  into  the  station  in  which  we  here  most  strangely  find 
it,  1  cannot  for  my  life  conjecture.  But  absurd  as  it  is  made  by  its 
association  in  this  place,  it  may  not  form  an  improper  conclusion 
to  a  paragraph  which  means  little,  and  which,  intending  censure, 
confers  dramatic  praise  on  a  dramatic  writer.  It  is  evident,  how 
ever,  that  Dr.  Johnson,  though  he  says  that  a  system  of  moral  duty 
may  be  selected  from  Shakspeare's  writings,  wished  to  inculcate 
that  his  scenes  were  not  of  a  moral  tendency.  On  this  topic,  the 
first  and  the  greater  Jonson  seems  to  have  entertained  very  different 
sentiments : — 

"  Look,  how  the  father's  face 

(says  this  great  man) 

Lives  in  his  issue  ;  even  so  the  race 

Of  Shakspeare's  mind  and  manners  brightly  shines 

In  his  well-torned  and  truefiled  lines." 

We  think,  indeed,  that  his  scenes  are  rich  in  sterling  morality,  and 
that  they  must  have  been  the  effusions  of  a  moral  mind.  The  only 
crimination  of  his  morals  must  be  drawn  from  a  few  of  his  sonnets ; 
and  from  a  story  first  suggested  by  Anthony  Wood,  and  afterwards 

VOL.    I.  E 


\\.\iv  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

told  by  Oldys  on  the  authority  of  Betterton  and  Pope.  From  the 
Sonnets*  we  can  collect  nothing  more  than  that  their  writer  was 
blindly  attached  to  an  unprincipled  woman,  who  preferred  a  young 
and  beautiful  friend  of  his  to  himself.  But  the  story  told  by  Oldys 
presents  something  to  us  of  a  more  tangible  nature  ;  and  as  it  pos 
sesses  some  intrinsic  merit  as  a  story,  and  rests,  as  to  its  principal 
facts,  on  the  authority  of  Wood,  who  was  a  native  of  Oxford,  and 
a  veracious  man,  we  shall  not  hesitate,  after  the  example  of  most  of 
the  recent  biographers  of  our  Poet,  to  relate  it,  and  in  the  very 
words  of  Oldys  : — "  If  tradition  may  be  trusted,  Shakspeare  often 
baited  at  the  Crown  Inn  or  Tavern  in  Oxford,  on  his  journey  to  and 
from  London.  The  landlady  was  a  beautiful  woman,  and  of  a 
sprightly  wit;  and  her  husband,  Mr.  John  Davenant  (afterwards 
mayor  of  that  city),  a  grave,  melancholy  man,  who,  as  well  as  his 
wife,  used  much  to  delight  in  Shakspeare's  pleasant  company. 
Their  son,  young  Will  Davenant  (afterwards  Sir  William  Davenant), 
was  then  a  little  schoolboy,  in  the  town,  of  about  seven  or  eight 
years  old,  and  so  fond  also  of  Shakspeare,  that,  whenever  he  heard 
of  his  arrival,  he  wrould  fly  from  school  to  see  him.  One  day,  an 
old  townsman,  observing  the  boy  running  homeward  almost  out  of 
breath,  asked  him  whither  he  was  posting  in  that  heat  and  hurry. 
He  answered,  to  see  his  ^orf-father,  Shakspeare.  There  is  a  good 
boy,  said  the  other  ;  but  have  a  care  that  you  don't  take  God's  name 
in  vain !  This  story  Mr.  Pope  told  me  at  the  Earl  of  Oxford's 
table,  upon  occasion  of  some  discourse  which  arose  about.  Shak 
speare's  monument,  then  newly  erected  in  Westminster  Abbey." 

The  will  of  Shakspeare,  giving  to  his  youngest  daughter,  Judith, 
not  more  than  three  hundred  pounds,  and  a  piece  of  plate,  which 
probably  was  valuable,  as  it  is  called  by  the  testator,  "  My  broad 
silver  and  gilt  bowl,"  assigns  almost  the  whole  of  his  property  to 
his  eldest  daughter,  Susanna  Hall,  and  her  husband,  whom  he 
appoints  to  be  his  executors.  The  cause  of  this  evident  partiality 
in  the  father  appears  to  be  discoverable  in  the  higher  mental  accom 
plishments  of  the  elder  daughter,  who  is  reported  to  have  resembled 
him  in  her  intellectual  endowments,  and  to  have  been  eminently 
distinguished  by  the  piety  and  the  Christian  benevolence  which 
actuated  her  conduct.  Having  survived  her  estimable  husband 

*  Sec  Sun.  MI,  111,  117,  151,  152. 


THE    LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXXV 

fourteen  years,  she  died  on  the  llth  of  July,  1649  ;  and  the  inscrip 
tion  on  her  tomb,  preserved  by  Dugdale,  commemorates  her  intel 
lectual  superiority,  and  the  influence  of  religion  upon  her  heart. 
This  inscription,  which  we  shall  transcribe,  bears  witness  also,  as 
we  must  observe,  to  the  piety  of  her  illustrious  father  : — 

Witty  above  her  sex — but  that's  not  all — 
Wise  to  salvation  was  good  Mistress  Hall. 
Something  of  Shakspeare  was  in  that;  but  this 
Wholly  of  kirn,  with  whom  she's  now  in  bliss. 
Then,  passenger,  hast  ne'er  a  tear 

To  weep  with  her,  that  wept  with  all  ? 
That  wept,  yet  set  herself  to  cheer 

Them  up  with  comforts  cordial. 
Her  love  shall  live,  her  mercy  spread, 
When  thou  hast  ne'er  a  tear  to  shed. 

As  Shakspeare's  last  will  and  testament  will  be  printed  at  the  end 
of  this  oioofraphy,  we  may  refer  our  readers  to  that  document  for  all 
the  minor  legacies  which  it  bequeaths ;  and  may  pass  immediately 
to  an  account  of  our  great  Poet's  family,  as  far  as  it  can  be  given 
from  records  which  are  authentic.  Judith,  his  younger  daughter, 
bore  to  her  husband,  Thomas  Quiney,  three  sons — Shakspeare,  who 
died  in  his  infancy;  Richard,  and  Thomas,  who  deceased,  the  first 
in  his  21st  year,  the  last  in  his  19th,  unmarried,  arid  before  their 
mother ;  who,  having  reached  her  77th  year,  expired  in  February, 
1661-2,  being  buried  on  the  9th  of  that  month.  She  appears  either 
not  to  have  received  any  education,  or  not  to  have  profited  by  the 
lessons  of  her  teachers  ;  for,  to  a  deed  still  in  existence,  she  affixes 
her  mark. 

We  have  already  mentioned  the  dates  of  the  birth,  marriage,  and 
death  of  Susanna  Hall.  She  left  only  one  daughter,  Elizabeth, 
who  was  baptized  on  the  21st  of  February,  1607-8,  eight  years 
before  her  grandfather's  decease,  and  was  married  on  the  22d  of 
April,  1626,  to  Mr.  Thomas  Nash,  a  country  gentleman,  as  it  ap 
pears,  of  independent  fortune.  Two  years  after  the  death  of  Mr. 
Nash,  who  was  buried  on  the  5th  of  April,  1647,  she  married,  on  the 
5th  of  June,  1649,  at  Billesley  in  Warwickshire,  Sir  John  Barnard, 
Knight,  of  Abington,  a  small  village  in  the  vicinity  of  Northamp 
ton.  She  died,  and  was  buried  at  Abington,  on  the  17th  of 
February,  1669-70 ;  and,  as  she  left  no  issue  by  either  of  her  hus- 


XXXVI  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

bands,  her  denth  terminated  the  lineal  descendants  of  Shakspeare. 
His  collateral  kindred  have  been  indulged  with  a  much  longer 
period  of  duration  ;  the  descendants  of  his  sister,  Joan,  having 
continued  in  a  regular  succession  of  generations  even  to  our  days; 
whilst  none  of  them,  with  a  single  exception,  have  broken  from 
that  rank  in  the  community  in  which  their  ancestors,  William  Hart 
and  Joan  Shakspeare,  united  their  unostentatious  fortunes  in  the 
year  1599.  The  single  exception  to  which  we  allude,  is  that  of 
Charles  Hart,  believed,  for  good  reasons,  to  be  the  son  of  William, 
the  eldest  son  of  William  and  Joan  Hart,  and  consequently  the 
grand-nephew  of  our  Poet.  At  the  early  age  of  seventeen,  Charles 
Hart,  as  lieutenant  in  Prince  Rupert's  regiment,  fought  at  the 
battle  of  Edgehill  ;  and,  subsequently  betaking  himself  to  the  stage, 
he  berime  tlio  most  renowned  tragic  actor  of  his  time.  "  What 
Mr.  Hart  delivers,"  says  Rymer  (I  adopt  the  citation  from  the 
page  of  Malone),  "every  one  takes  upon  content:  their  eyes  are 
prepossessed  and  charmed  by  his  action  before  aught  of  the 
poet's  can  approach  their  ears ;  and  to  the  most  wretched  of  char 
acters  he  gives  a  lustre  and  brilliancy,  which  dazzles  the  sight 
that  the  deformities  in  the  poetry  cannot  be  perceived."  "  Were 
I  a  poet"  (says  another  contemporary  writer),  "  nay,  a  Fletcher,  or 
a  Shakspeare,  I  would  quit  my  own  title  to  immortality  so  that  one 
actor  might  never  die.  This  I  may  modestly  say  of  him  (nor  is  it 
my  particular  opinion,  but  the  sense  of  all  mankind),  that  the  best 
tragedies  on  the  English  stage  have  received  their  lustre  from  Mr. 
Hart's  performance  ;  that  he  has  left  such  an  impression  behind 
him,  that  no  less  than  the  interval  of  an  age  can  make  them  appear 
n<:am  with  half  their  majesty  from  any  second  hand."  This  was  a 
brilliant  eruption  from  the  family  of  Shakspeare;  but  as  it  was  the 
first,  so  it  appears  to  have  been  the  last ;  and  the  Harts  have  ever 
since,  as  far  at  least  as  it  is  known  to  us,  "  pursued  the  noiseless 
tenor  of  their  way,"  within  the  precints  of  their  native  town  on 
the  banks  of  the  soft-flowing  Avon.* 

*  By  intelligence,  cm  tlic  accuracy  of  which  I  can  rely,  and  which  has  only  just  reached  me, 
from  the  liirthpla-'c  of  Fhakspearc,  I  learn  that  the  family  of  the  Harts,  after  a  course  of 
lineal  descents  during  the  revolution  of  two  hundred  and  twenty-six  years,  is  now  on  the 
verse  of  extinction  ;  an  a 'red  woman,  who  retains  in  ainirjc  Urfmrdnr.-is  her  maiden  name  of 
Hart,  bf-/.n<i  at  tlrs  time  (Nov.  IS^.V)  its  sole  surviving  representative.  For  some  years  she 
occupied  the  house  of  her  ancestors,  in  \\  liich  Shakspeare  is  reported  to  have  first  seen  the 


THE   LIFE  OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXXVll 

Whatever  is  in  any  degree  associated  with  the  personal  history  of 
Shakspeare  is  weighty  with  general  interest.  The  circumstance 
of  his  birth  can  impart  consequence  even  to  a  provincial  town  ; 
and  we  are  riot  unconcerned  in  the  past  or  the  present  fortunes  of 
the  place  over  which  hovers  the  glory  of  his  name.  But  the  house  in 
which  he  passed  the  last  three  or  four  years  of  his  life,  and  in  which 
he  terminated  his  mortal  labors,  is  still  more  engaging  to  our  imagi 
nations,  as  it  is  more  closely  and  personally  connected  with  him. 
Its  history,  therefore,  must  not  be  omitted  by  us  ;  and  if,  in  some 
respects,  we  should  differ  in  it  from  the  narrative  of  Malone,  we 
shall  not  be  without  reasons  sufficient  to  justify  the  deviations  in 
which  we  indulge.  New  Place,  then,  which  was  not  thus  first 
named  by  Shakspeare,  was  built  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.,  by 
Sir  Hugh  Clopton,  Kt.,  the  younger  son  of  an  old  family  resident 
near  Stratford,  who  had  filled  in  succession  the  offices  of  sheriff 
and  of  lord  mayor  of  London.  In  1563,  it  was  sold  by  one  of  the 
Clopton  family  to  William  Bott;  and  by  him  was  again  sold,  in  1570, 
to  William  Underbill  (the  purchaser  and  the  seller  being  both  of 
the  rank  of  esquires),  from  whom  it  was  bought  by  our  Poet  in 
1597.  By  him  it  was  bequeathed  to  his  daughter  Susanna  Hall ; 
from  whom  it  descended  to  her  only  child,  Lady  Barnard.  In  the 
June  of  1643,  this  lady,  with  her  first  husband,  Mr.  Nash,  enter 
tained,  for  nearly  three  weeks,  at  New  Place,  Henrietta  Maria,  the 
queen  of  Charles  I.,  when,  escorted  by  Prince  Rupert  and  a  large 
body  of  troops,  she  was  on  her  progress  to  meet  her  royal  consort, 
and  to  proceed  with  him  to  Oxford.  On  the  death  of  Lady  Barnard 
without  children,  New  Place  was  sold,  in  1675,*  to  Sir  Edward 


light  j  and  here  she  obtained  a  couifortablu  subsistence  by  showing  the  antiquities  of  the 
venerated  mansion  to  the  numerous  strangers  who  were  attracted  to  it.  Being  dispossessed 
of  this  residence  by  the  rapaciousness  of  its  proprietor,  she  settled  herself  in  a  dwelling 
nearly  opposite  to  it.  Here  she  still  lives;  and  continues  to  exhibit  some  relics,  not  re 
puted  to  be  genuine,  of  the  mighty  Bard,  with  whom  her  maternal  ancestor  \vas  nourished 
in  the  same  womb.  She  regards  herself  also  as  a  dramatic  poet ;  and,  in  support  of  her  pre 
tensions,  she  produces  the  rude  sketch  of  a  play,  uninspired,  as  it  is  said,  with  any  of  the 
vitality  of  genius.  For  this  information  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Charles  Fellows,  of  Not 
tingham  ;  who,  with  the  characteristic  kindness  of  his  most  estimable  family,  sought  for 
the  intelligence  which  was  required  by  me,  and  obtained  it. 

*  Malone  gives  a  different  account  of  some  of  the  transfers  of  New  Place.  According  to 
him,  it  passed  by  sale,  on  the  death  of  Lady  Barnard,  to  Edward  Xash,  the  cousin-german 
of  that  lady's  first  husband ;  and,  by  him,  was  bequeathed  to  his  daughter  Mary,  the  wife 
of  Sir  Reginald  Foster)  from  whom  it  was  bought  by  Sir  John  Clopton,  who  gave  it  by 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SIIAKSPEARE. 

Walker,  Kt.,  Garter  King  at  Anns;  by  whom  it  was  left  to  his 
onlv  child,  Barbara,  married  to  Sir  John  Clopton,  Kt.,  of  Clopton 
in  the  parish  of  Stratford.  On  his  demise,  it  became  the  property  of 
a  younger  son  of  his,  Sir  Hugh  Clopton,  Kt.,  (this  family  of  the  Clop- 
tons  seems  to  have  been  peculiarly  prolific  in  the  breed  of  knights,) 
bv  whom  it  was  repaired  and  decorated  at  a  very  large  expense. 
Alalone  affirms  that  it  was  pulled  down  by  him,  and  its  place  sup 
plied  by  a  more  sumptuous  edifice.  If  this  statement  were  correct, 
the  crime  of  its  subsequent  destroyer  would  be  greatly  extenuated; 
and  the  hand  which  had  wielded  the  axe  against  the  hallowed 
mulberry-tree,  would  be  absolved  from  the  second  act,  imputed  to 
it,  of  sacrilegious  violence.  But  Malone's  account  is,  unquestion 
ably,  erroneous.  In  the  May  of  1742,  Sir  Hugh  entertained 
Garrick,  Macklin,  and  Dolany,  under  the  shade  of  the  Shakspearian 
mulberry.  On  the  demise  of  Sir  Hugh,*  in  the  December  of  1751, 
\ew  Place  was  sold  by  his  son-in-law  and  executor,  Henry  Talbot, 
the  Lord  Chancellor  Talbot's  brother,  to  the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell, 
vicar  of  Frodsham  in  Cheshire  :  by  whom,  on  some  quarrel  with 
the  magistrates,  on  the  subject  of  the  parochial  assessments,  it  was 
razed  to  the  ground,  and  its  site  abandoned  to  vacancy.  On  this 
completion  of  his  outrages  f  against  the  memory  of  Shakspeare, 
which  his  unlucky  possession  of  wealth  enabled  him  to  commit, 
Francis  Gastrell  departed  from  Stratford,  hooted  out  of  the  town, 

deed  to  his  youngest  PUD.  P;r  TTucrh.  But  the  deed  which  conveyed  New  Place  to  Sir 
Edward  Walker,  is  still  in  existence;  and  lias  been  published  by  R.  B.  Wlieler,  the  his 
torian  i.f  Slratfcri.!. 

*  Fiv  Hn  ':<"•  •-.•'••  •  ,,;  i.y  George  T.  Tie  wa?  n  barrister  at  law  ;  and  die:!  in 
the  December  of  17.11,  at.  the  advanced  a<re  of  ehrhty. — Mnlone. 

|  Our  days,  al.-o,  have  witnessed  a  similar  profanation  of  the  relics  of  genius;  not, 
indee  1,  of  -  n  vith  t!.;i<  if  :\  -hit-it  v,  i-  have  been  sneaking,  for  Nature 

ln=  riot  vt  prodiif-d  a  second  crlnk=penre  :  but  of  -renins  which  hnd  conversed  with  the 
immortal  .Muses,  which  had  care  |,e<;n  the  delight  of  the  good  and  the  terror  of  the  bad.  I 
"ll'id.  :  ion  of  I  DJU  .  harming  ix- treat,  on  the  banks  of  tin:  Thames,  by  a  eapri- 

1ns  eiHe-ivoml  to  blot  nut  every  'Memorial  of  the  great. 

r.nd  moral  poet,  from  that  spot,  which  his  occupation  had  made  classic,  and  dear  to  the  hearts 
of  his  coiintn  men.  In  the  mui.ibiliiy  of  all  human  things,  and  the  inevitable  shiftings  of 
property,  :;  From  y(,'i  to  n  •  ^Val'er,"  these  lamentahle  desecrations, 

wlrch  np.rl  ty  <cir  pride  and  wound  our  sens;bii;ties,  will  of  necessity  sometimes  occur. 
The  site  of  the  Tus,  niaii  of  Cicero  may  becomtj  the  haunt  of  banditti,  or  he  disgraced 
with  tin-  wail.-  ,,f  a  ii.unaslen  .  Tin:  K::,i(lence>  of  a  J-haks^eare  and  a  I'o|,c  may  be  devas- 
tate.l  an,l  (Milr.l  |,,  a  Parson  Ca^tivll  rin-1  a  P.aroness  Howe.  We  ran  only  sigh  over  the 
ruin  whon  its  deformity  strikes  upon  our  eyes,  and  execrate  the  hands  by  which  it  has 
been  savagely  accomplished. 


THE   LIFE  OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  XXXIX 

and  pursued  by  the  execrations  of  its  inhabitants.  The  fate  of 
New  Place  has  been  rather  remarkable.  After  the  demolition  of 
the  house  by  Gastrell,  the  ground,  which  it  had  occupied,  was 
thrown  into  the  contiguous  garden,  and  was  sold  by  the  widow  of 
the  clerical  barbarian.  Having  remained,  during  a  certain  period, 
HS  a  portion  of  a  garden,  a  house  was  again  erected  on  it;  and,  in 
consequence  also  of  some  dispute  about  the  parish  assessments, 
that  house,  like  its  predecessor,  was  pulled  down ;  and  its  site  was 
finally  abandoned  to  Nature,  for  the  production  of  her  fruits  and 
h^r  flowers  :  and  thither  may  we  imagine  the  little  Elves  and  Fairies 
frequently  to  resort,  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  their  beloved  Poet, 
now  obliterated  from  the  vision  of  man ;  to  throw  a  finer  perfume 
on  the  violet;  to  unfold  the  first  rose  of  the  year,  and  to  tinge  its 
cheek  with  a  richer  blush  ;  and,  in  their  dances  beneath  the  full- 
orbed  moon,  to  chant  their  harmonies,  too  subtle  for  the  gross  ear 
of  mortality,  to  the  fondly-cherished  memory  of  their  darling, 

THE    SWEET    SWAN    OF    AVON. 

Of  the  personal  history  of  William  Shakspeare,  as  far  as  it  can 
be  drawn,  even  in  shadowy  existence,  from  the  obscurity  which 
invests  it,  and  of  whatever  stands  in  immediate  connection  with  it, 
we  have  now  exhibited  all  that  we  can  collect ;  and  we  are  not 
conscious  of  having  omitted  a  single  circumstance  of  any  moment, 
or  worthy  of  the  attention  of  our  readers.  We  might,  indeed,  with 
old  Fuller,  speak  of  our  Poet's  wit-combats,  as  Fuller  calls  them,  at 
the  Mermaid,  with  Ben  Jonson  :  but  then  we  have  not  one  anecdote 
on  record,  of  either  of  these  intellectual  gladiators,  to  produce;  for 
not  a  sparkle  of  our  Shakspeare's  convivial  wit  has  travelled  down 
to  our  eyes ;  and  it  would  be  neither  instructive  nor  pleasant  to  see 
him  represented  as  a  light  skiff,  skirmishing  with  a  huge  galleon, 
and  either  evading  or  pressing  attack,  as  prudence  suggested,  or 
the  alertness  of  his  movements  emboldened  him  to  attempt.  The 
lover  of  heraldry  may,  perhaps,  censure  us  for  neglecting  to  give 
the  blazon  of  Shakspeare's  arms,  for  which,  as  it  appears,  two 
patents  were  issued  from  the  herald's  office,  one  in  15G9  or  1579, 
and  one  in  1599;  and  by  him  who  will  insist  on  the  transcription 
of  every  word  which  has  been  imputed,  on  any  authority,  to  the  pen 
of  Shakspeare,  we  may  be  blamed  for  passing  over  in  silence  two 
very  indifferent  epitaphs,  which  have  been  charged  on  him.  We 
will  now,  therefore,  give  the  arms  which  were  accorded  to  him  ;  and 


Xl  THE  LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

we  will,  also,  copy  the  two  epitaphs  in  question.  We  may  then, 
without  any  further  impediment,  proceed  to  the  more  agreeable 
portion  of  our  labors, — the  notice  of  our  Author's  works. 

The  armorial  bearings  of  the  Shakspeare  family  are,  or  rather 
Were, — Or,  on  a  bend  sable,  a  tilting  spear  of  the  first,  point  up 
wards,  headed  argent.  Crest,  A  falcon  displayed,  argent,  support 
ing  a  spear  in  pale,  or. 

In  a  MS.  volume  of  poems,  by  William  Herrick  and  others, 
preserved  in  the  Bodleian,  is  the  following  epitaph,  attributed, 
certainly  not  on  its  internal  evidence,  to  our  Poet.  Its  subject  was, 
probably,  the  member  of  a  family  with  the  surname  of  James,  which 
once  existed  in  Stratford. 

When  God  was  pleased,  the  world  unwilling  yet, 

Elias  James  to  nature  paid  his  debt, 

And  here  reposeth  :  as  he  lived  he  died; 

The  saying  in  him  strongly  verified, — 

Such  life,  such  death  :  then,  the  known  truth  to  tell, 

He  lived  a  godly  life,  and  died  as  well. 

WM.  SHAKSPEARE. 

Among  the  monuments  in  Tonge  Church,  in  the  county  of  Salop, 
is  one  raised  to  the  memory  of  Sir  Thomas  Stanley,  Knt.,  who  is 
thought  by  Malone  to  have  died  about  the  year  1600.  With  the 
prose  inscription  on  this  tomb,  transcribed  by  Sir  W.  Dugdale, 
are  the  verses  which  I  am  about  to  copy,  said  by  Dugdale  to  have 
been  made  by  William  Shakspeare,  the  late  famous  tragedian. 


ON  THE  EAST  END  OF  THE  TOMB. 

Ask  who  lies  here,  but  do  not  weep  : 
He  is  J  ot  dead,  he  doth  but  sleep. 
This  s  ony  register  is  for  his  bones : 


His  fai 


Shall  1 


ie  is  more  perpetual  than  these  stories  : 
i  owu  goinliK'ss,  with  himself  being  gone, 
vc  when  earthly  monument  is  none. 


ON    THE    \VEST    END. 
Not  monumental  stone  preserves  our  fame, 
Nor  sky-aspiring  pyramids  our  name. 
The  memory  of  him  for  whom  this  stands, 
Shall  outlive  marble  and  defacer's  hands. 
When  all  to  time's  consumption  shall  be  given, 
Stanley,  for  whom  this  stands,  shall  stand  in  heaven. 


THE   LIFE   OF  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE.  xli 

As  the  great  works  of  Shakspeare  have  engaged  the  attention  of 
an  active  and  a  learned  century,  since  they  were  edited  by  Rowe, 
little  that  is  new  on  the  subject  of  them  can  be  expected  from  a  pen 
of  the  present  day.  It  is  necessary,  however,  that  we  should  notice 
them,  lest  our  readers  should  be  compelled  to  seek  in  another  page 
than  ours  for  the  common  information  which  they  might  conceive 
themselves  to  be  entitled  to  expect  from  us. 

Fourteen  of  his  plays  were  published  separately,  in  quarto  copies, 
during  our  Poet's  life  ;  and,  seven  years  after  his  death,  a  complete 
edition  of  them  was  given  to  the  public,  in  folio,  by  his  theatric  fel 
lows,  Heminge  and  Condell.  Of  those  productions  of  his  which 
were  circulated  by  the  press  while  he  was  yet  living,  and  were  all 
surreptitious,  our  great  Author  seems  to  have  been  as  utterly  regard 
less  as  he  necessarily  was  of  those  which  appeared  when  he  was 
mouldering  in  his  grave.*  We  have  already  observed  on  the  ex 
traordinary  indifference  of  this  illustrious  man  toward  the  offspring 
of  his  fancy ;  and  we  make  it  again  the  subject  of  our  remark,  solely 
for  the  purpose  of  illustrating  the  cause  of  those  numerous  and  per 
nicious  errors  which  deform  all  the  early  editions  of  his  plays. 

The  copies  of  the  plays  published  antecedently  to  his  death, 
were  transcribed  either  by  memory  from  their  recitation  on  the 
stage ;  or  from  the  separate  parts,  written  out  for  the  study  of  the 
particular  actors,  and  to  be  pieced  together  by  the  skill  of  the 
editor;  or,  lastly,  if  stolen  or  bribed  access  could  be  obtained  to  it, 
from  the  prompter's  book  itself.  From  any  of  these  sources  of  ac 
quisition  the  copy  would  necessarily  be  polluted  with  very  flagrant 

*  In  his  essay  on  the  chronological  order  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  Malone  concludes  very 
properly  from  the  title-page  of  the  earliest  edition  of  Hamlet,  which  he  believed  then  to  be 
extant,  that  this  edition  (published  in  1604)  had  been  preceded  by  another  of  a  loss  correct 
and  less  perfect  character.  A  copy  of  the  elder  edition,  in  question,  has  lately  been  dis 
covered,  and  is,  indeed,  far  more  remote  from  perfection  than  its  successor,  which  was 
collated  by  Malone.  It  obviously  appears  to  have  been  printed  from  the  rude  draught  of 
the  drama,  as  it  was  sketched  by  the  Poet  from  the  first  suggestions  of  his  mind.  But  how 
this  rude  and  imperfect  draught  could  fall  into  the  hands  of  its  publisher,  is  a  question  not 
easily  to  be  answered.  Such,  however,  is  the  authority  to  be  attached  to  all  the  early 
quartos.  They  were  obtained  by  every  indirect  mean  :  and  the  first  incorrect  MS.,  blotted 
again  and  again  by  the  pens  of  ignorant  transcribers,  and  multiplied  by  the  press,  was 
suffered,  by  the  apathy  of  its  illustrious  Author,  to  be  circulated,  without  check,  among  the 
multitude.  The  variations  of  the  copy  of  Hamlet  immediately  before  us,  which  was  pub 
lished  in  1603,  from  the  perfect  drama,  as  it  subsequently  issued  from  the  press,  are  far  too 
numerous  to  be  noticed  in  this  place,  if  indeed  this  place  could  properly  be  assigned  to  such 
a  purpose. 

VOL.    I.  F 


xlii  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

errors;  and  from  every  edition  through  which  it  ran,  it  would 
naturally  contract  more  pollution  and  a  deeper  stain.  Such  of  the 
first  copies  as  were  fortunately  transcribed  from  the  prompter's 
book,  \voulcl  probably  be  in  a  state  of  greater  relative  correctness: 
but  they  are  all,  in  different  degrees,  deformed  with  inaccuracies  ; 
and  not  one  of  them  can  claim  the  right  to  be  followed  as  an 
authority. 

In  16:23,  the  first  complete  edition  of  our  Author's  dramatic  works 
was  published  in  folio  by  his  comrades  of  the  theatre,  Heminge  and 
Condcll ;  and  in  this  we  might  expect  a  text  tolerably  incorrupt,  if 
not  perfectly  pure.  The  editors  denounced  the  copies  which  had 
preceded  their  edition  as  "  stolen  and  surreptitious  copies,  maimed 
and  deformed  by  the  frauds  and  stealths  of  injurious  impostors,  that 
exposed  them  :  even  those  are  now  offered  to  your  view  cured  and 
perfect  of  their  limbs ;  and  all  the  rest  absolute  in  their  numbers  as 
he  conceived  them."  But,  notwithstanding  these  professions,  and 
their  honest  resentment  against  impostors  and  surreptitious  copies, 
the  labors  of  these  sole  possessors  of  Shakspeare's  MSS.  did  not 
obtain  the  credit  which  they  arrogated ;  and  they  are  charged  with 
printing  from  those  very  quartos  on  which  they  had  heaped  so 
much  well -merited  abuse.  They  printed,  as  there  cannot  be  a 
doubt,  from  their  prompter's  book,  (for  by  what  temptation  could 
they  be  enticed  beyond  it?)  but  then,  from  the  same  book  were 
transcribed  many,  perhaps,  of  the  surreptitious  quartos ;  and  it  is 
not  wonderful  that  transcripts  of  the  same  page  should  be  precisely 
alike.  These  editors,  however,  of  the  first  folio,  have  incurred  the 
heavy  displeasure  of  some  of  our  modern  critics,  who  are  zealous  on 
all  occasions  to  depreciate  their  work.  Wherever  they  differ  from 
the  first  quartos,  which,  for  the  reason  that  I  have  assigned,  they 
must  in  general  very  closely  resemble,  Malone  is  ready  to  decide 
against  them,  and  to  defer  to  the  earlier  edition.  But  it  is  against 
the  editor  of  the  second  folio,  published  in  1632,  that  he  points  the 
full  storm  of  his  indignation.  He  charges  this  luckless  wight, 
whoever  he  may  be,  with  utter  ignorance  of  the  language  of 
Shakspeare's  time,  and  of  the  fabric  of  Shakspeare's  verse;  and  he 
considers  him  and  Pope  as  the  grand  corrupters  of  Shakspeare's  text. 
— I  am  far  from  assuming  to  vindicate  this  editor  from  the  commis 
sion  of  many  flagrant  errors  :  but  he  is  frequently  right,  and  was 


THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

unquestionably  conversant,  let  Malone  assert  what  he  pleases,  with 
his  Author's  language  and  metre.  It  was  not,  therefore,  without 

cause,  that  Steevens  held  his  labors  in  much  estimation.     Malone 

I 

was  an  invaluable  collector  of  facts  :  his  industry  was  indefatigable: 
his  researches  were  deep  :  his  pursuit  of  truth  was  sincere  and  ar 
dent  :  but  he  wanted  the  talents  and  the  taste  of  a  critic ;  and  of 
all  the  editors,  by  whom  Shakspeare  has  suffered,  I  must  consider 
him  as  the  most  pernicious.  Neither  the  indulged  fancy  of  Pope, 
nor  the  fondness  for  innovation  in  Hanmer,  nor  the  arrogant  and 
headlong  self-confidence  of  Warburton,  has  inflicted  such  cruel 
wounds  on  the  text  of  Shakspeare,  as  the  assuming  dulness  of 
Malone.  Barbarism  and  broken  rhythm  dog  him  at  the  heels 
wherever  he  treads. 

In  praise  of  the  third  and  the  fourth  folio  editions  of  our  Author's 
dramas,  printed  respectively  in  1664  and  1685.  nothing  can  be  ad 
vanced.  Each  of  these  editions  implicitly  followed  its  immediate 
predecessor,  and,  adopting  all  its  errors,  increased  them  to  a  fright 
ful  accumulation  with  its  own.  With  the  text  of  Shakspeare  in  this 
disorder,  the  public  of  Britain  remained  satisfied  during  many 
years.  At  length,  about  the  commencement  of  the  last  century, 
Britain  began  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  excellency  of  her  illustrious 
son,  THE  GREAT  POET  OF  NATURE,  and  to  discover  a  solicitude  for 
the  integrity  of  his  works.  A  new  and  a  more  perfect  edition  of 
them  became  the  demand  of  the  public  ;  and,  to  answer  it,  an 
edition,  under  the  superintendence  of  Rowe,  made  its  appearance 
in  1709.  Rowe,  however,  either  forgetting  or  shrinking-  from  the 
high  and  laborious  duties  which  he  had  undertaken,  selected,  most 
unfortunately,  for  his  model,  the  last  and  the  worst  of  the  folio  edi 
tions  ;  and,  without  collating  either  of  the  first  two  folios  or  any  of 
the  earlier  quartos,  he  gave  to  the  disappointed  public  a  transcript 
much  too  exact  of  the  impure  text  which  lay  opened  before  him. 
Some  of  its  grosser  errors,  however,  he  corrected  ;  and  he  prefixed 
to  his  edition  a  short  memoir  of  the  life  of  his  Author,  which, 
meagre  and  weakly  written  as  it  is,  still  constitutes  the  most  au 
thentic  biography  that  we  possess  of  our  mighty  Bard. 

On  the  failure  of  this  edition,  after  the  pause  of  a  few  years, 
another  was  projected;  and,  that  it  might  be  more  adequate  to  the 
claims  of  Shakspeare  and  of  Britain,  the  conduct  of  it  was  placed. 


\liv  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

in  ho::rige  to  his  just  celebrity,  in  the  hands  of  Pope.  Pope  showed 
himself  more  conscious  of  the  nature  of  his  task,  and  more  faithful 
i;i  his  execution  of  it,  than  his  predecessor.  He  disclosed  to  the 
public  the  very  faulty  state  of  his  Author's  text,  and  suggested  tho 
proper  means  of  restoring  it :  he  collated  many  of  the  earlier  edi 
tions,  and  he  cleared  the  page  of  Shakspeare  from  many  of  its  de 
formities  :  but  his  collations  were  not  sufficiently  extensive  ;  and  he 
indulged,  perhaps,  somewhat  too  much  in  conjectural  emendation. 
This  exposed  him  to  the  attacks  of  the  petty  and  minute  critics ; 
and,  the  success  of  his  work  falling  short  of  his  expectations,  he  is 
said  to  have  contracted  that  enmity  to  verbal  criticism,  which  ac 
tuated  him  during  the  remaining  days  of  his  life.  His  edition  was 
published  in  the  year  1725.  Before  this  was  undertaken,  Theobald, 
a  man  of  no  great  abilities,  and  of  little  learning,  had  projected  the 
restoration  of  Shakspeare  ;  but  his  labors  had  been  suspended,  or 
their  result  had  been  withheld  from  the  press,  till  the  issue  of  Pope's 
attempt  was  ascertained  by  its  accomplishment,  and  publication. 
The  Shakspeare  of  Theobald's  editing  was  not  given  to  the  world 
before  the  year  1733 ;  when  it  obtained  more  of  the  public  regard 
than  its  illustrious  predecessor,  in  consequence  of  its  being  drawn 
from  a  somewhat  wider  field  of  collation,  and  of  its  less  frequent 
and  presumptuous  admission  of  conjecture.  Theobald,  indeed, 
did  riot  wholly  abstain  from  conjecture  ;  but  the  palm  of  conjec 
tural  criticism  was  placed  much  too  high  for  the  reach  of  his  hand. 

To  Theobald,  as  an  editor  of  Shakspeare,  succeeded  Sir  Thomas 
Ilaimier,  who,  in  1744,  published  a  superb  edition  of  the  great 
Dramatist  from  the  press  of  Oxford.  But  Hanmer,  building  his 
work  on  that  of  Pope,  and  indulging  in  the  wildest  and  most  wanton 
innovations,  deprived  his  edition  of  all  pretensions  to  authenticity, 
and,  consequently,  to  merit. 

The  bow  of  Ulysses  was  next  seized  by  a  mighty  hand — by  the 
hand  of  Wurburton  ;  whose  Shakspeare  was  published  in  1747.  It 
iailed  of  success  ;  for,  conceiving  that  the  editor  intended  to  make 
his  Author  his  showman  to  exhibit  his  erudition  and  intellectual 
power,  the  public  quickly  neglected  his  work  ;  and  it  soon  disap 
peared  from  circulation,  though  some  of  its  proffered  substitutions 
must  be  allowed  to  be  happy,  and  some  of  its  explanations  to  be 
just. 


THE  LIFE  OF   WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE.  xlv 

After  an  interval  of  eighteen  years,  Shakspeare  obtained  once 
more  an  editor  of  great  name,  and  seemingly  in  every  way  accom 
plished  to  assert  the  rights  of  his  Author.  In  17G5,  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson  presented  the  world  with  his  long-promised  edition  of  our 
Dramatist ;  and  the  public  expectation,  which  had  been  highly 
raised,  was  again  doomed  to  be  disappointed.  Johnson  had  a  pow 
erful  intellect,  and  was  perfectly  conversant  with  human  life  ;  but 
he  was  not  sufficiently  versed  in  black-letter  lore  ;  and,  deficient  in 
poetic  taste,  he  was  unable  to  accompany  our  great  Bard  in  the 
higher  flights  of  his  imagination.  The  public  in  general  were  not 
satisfied  with  his  commentary  or  his  text ;  but  to  his  Preface  they 
gave  the  most  unlimited  applause.  The  array  and  glitter  of  its 
words  ;  the  regular  and  pompous  inarch  of  its  periods,  with  its  per 
vading  affectation  of  deep  thought  and  of  sententious  remark,  seem 
to  have  fascinated  the  popular  mind  ;  and  to  have  withdrawn  from 
the  common  observation  its  occasional  poverty  of  meaning  ;  the  in 
consistency  of  its  praise  and  censure;  the  falsity  in  some  instances 
of  its  critical  remarks;  and  its  defects  now  and  then  even  with  re 
spect  to  composition.  It  has,  however,  its  merits,  and  Heaven  for 
bid  that  I  should  not  be  just  to  them.  It  gives  a  right  view  of  the 
difficulties  to  be  encountered  by  the  editor  of  Shakspeare  :  it  speaks 
modestly  of  himself,  and  candidly  of  those  who  had  preceded  him 
in  the  path  which  he  was  treading  :  it  assigns  to  Pope,  Hanmer, 
and  Warburton,  those  victims  to  the  rage  of  the  minute  critics, 
their  due  proportion  of  praise  :  it  is  honorably  just,  in  short,  to  all 
who  come  within  the  scope  of  its  observations,  with  the  exception 
of  the  editor's  great  Author  alone.  To  him  also  the  editor  gives 
abundant  praise ;  but  against  it  he  arrays  such  a  frightful  host  of 
censure  as  to  command  the  field  ;  and  to  leave  us  to  wonder  at  our 
admiration  of  an  object  so  little  worthy  of  it,  though  he  has  been 
followed  by  the  admiration  of  more  than  two  entire  centuries.  As 
an  unfolder  of  intricate  and  perplexed  passages,  Johnson  must 
be  allowed  to  excel.  His  explanations  are  always  perspicuous,  and 
his  proffered  amendments  of  a  corrupt  text  are  sometimes  successful. 
But  the  expectations  of  the  world  had  been  too  highly  raised  to  be 
satisfied  with  his  performance ;  and  it  was  only  to  the  most  excep 
tionable  part  of  it,  the  mighty  Preface,  that  they  gave  their  un  mingled 
applause. — In  the  year  following  the  publication  of  Johnson's 


xlvi  THE   LIFE   OF   WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 

edition,  in  17GG,  George  Steevens  made  his  first  appearance  as  a 
commentator  on  Sliakspeare  ;  and  he  showed  himself  to  be  deeply 
conversant  with  that  antiquarian  reading,  of  which  his  predecessor 
had  been  too  ignorant.  In  170S,  an  edition  of  Sliakspeare  was 
given  to  the  public  by  Cupull;  a  man  fondly  attached  to  his  Author, 
but  much  too  weak  for  the  weighty  task  which  he  undertook.  lie 
had  devoted  a  large  portion  of  his  life  to  the  collection  of  his  mate 
rials  :  he  was  an  industrious  collator,  and  all  the  merit  which  he 
possesses,  must  be  derived  from  the  extent  and  the  fidelity  of  his 
collations.  —  In  1773  was  published  an  edition  of  our  Dramatist  by 
the  associated  labors  of  Johnson  and  Steevens;  and  this  edition,  in 
which  were  united  the  native  powers  of  the  former,  with  the  activity, 
the  sagacity,  and  the  antiquarian  learning  of  the  latter,  still  forms 
the  standard  edition  for  the  publishers  of  our  Poet. — In  1790,  M alone 
entered  the  lists  against  them  as  a  competitor  for  the  editorial 
palm.  After  this  publication,  Malone  seems  to  have  devoted  the 
remaining  years  of  his  life  to  the  studies  requisite  for  the  illustra 
tion  of  his  Author;  and  at  his  death  he  bequeathed  the  voluminous 
papers,  which  he  had  prepared,  to  his  and  my  friend,  James 
Boswell,  the  younger  son  of  the  biographer  of  Johnson;  and  by 
him  these  papers  were  published  in  twenty  octavo  volumes,  just 
before  the  close  of  his  own  valuable  life.  That  the  fund  of  Shak- 
spearian  information  has  been  enlarged  by  this  publication,  cannot 
reasonably  be  doubted  ;  that  the  text  of  Shakspeare  has  been  injured 
by  it,  mny  confidently  be  asserted.  As  my  opinion  of  Malone,  as 
un  anuotator  on  Shakspeare,  has  been  already  expressed,  it  would 
be  superfluous  to  repeat  it.  His  stores  of  antiquarian  knowledge 
were  at  least  equal  to  those  of  Steevens;  but  he  was  not  equally 
endowed  by  nature  with  that  popular  commentator. 

The  last  edition  which  I  shall  notice,  is  a  recent  one  by  Mr. 
Singer.  This  editor's  antiquarian  learning  is  accurate  and  exten 
sive  :  his  critical  sagacity  is  considerable  ;  and  his  judgment 
generally  approves  itself  to  be  correct.  lie  enters  on  the  field  with 
the  stmio-th  of  a  giant,  but  with  the  di/Tidence  and  the  humility  of 
a  child.  We  sometimes  wish,  indeed,  that  his  humility  had  been 
less;  for  he  is  apt  to  defer  to  inferior  men,  and  to  be  satisfied  with 
following  when  he  is  privileged  to  lead.  His  explanations  of  his  Au 
thor  are  frequently  happy;  and  sometimes  they  illustrate  a  passage 


NEW  FACTS,  &c.  xlvii 

which  had  been  left  in  unregarded  darkness  by  the  commentators 
who  had  preceded  him.  The  sole  fault  of  these  explanatory  notes  (if 
such,  indeed,  can  be  deemed  a  fault)  is  their  redundancy,  and  their 
recurrence  in  cases  where  their  aid  seems  to  be  unnecessary.  Mr. 
Singer  and  I  may  occasionally  differ  in  our  opinions  respecting  the 
text  which  he  has  adopted ;  but,  in  these  instances  of  our  dissent, 
it  is  fully  as  probable  that  I  may  be  wrong  as  he.  I  feel,  in  short, 
confident,  on  the  whole,  that  Mr.  Singer  is  now  advancing,  not  to 
claim  (for  to  claim  is  inconsistent  with  his  modesty),  but  to  obtain, 
a  high  place  among  the  editors  of  Shakspeare ;  and  to  have  his 
name  enrolled  with  the  names  of  those  who  have  been  the  chief 
benefactors  of  the  reader  of  our  transcendent  Poet. 


NEW    FACTS 


REGARDING  THE  LIFE  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 


So  little  is  known  of  the  personal  history  of  Shakspeare,  that  the  reader  may  be 
gratified  to  learn  the  -esults  of  researches  lately  made  by  J.  Payne  Collier,  F.  S.  A., 
among1  the  manuscripts  preserved  at  Bridgewater  House,  and  lately  published  by 
him  in  a  letter  addressed  to  Thomas  Amyot,  F.  R.  S.  They  relate  principally  to 
Shakspeare's  pecuniary  circumstances  :  a  few  passages  of  little  moment,  as  respects 
our  purpose,  are  omitted. 


MY  DEAR  AMYOT, 

IN  the  "History  of  English  Dramatic  Poetry  and  the  Stage,"  I 
remarked  that,  "  on  looking  back  to  the  life  of  Shakspeare,  the  first 
observation  that  must  be  made  is,  that  so  few  facts  are  extant  re 
garding  him;"  and  Steevens,  the  most  acute,  and  perhaps  the  most 
learned,  of  his  commentators,  stated,  long  before,  that  "  all  that  is 
known  with  any  degree  of  certainty  concerning  Shakspeare  is — 
that  he  was  born  at  Stratford  upon  Avon — married  and  had  children 
there — went  to  London,  where  he  commenced  actor,  and  wrote  poems 


xlviii  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

and  plays — returned  to  Stratford,  made  his  will,  died,  and  was 
buried."  The  truth  undoubtedly  is,  that  there  are  scarcely  any 
of  his  distinguished  contemporaries,  regarding  the  events  of  whose 
lives  we  are  not  better  informed.  I  supplied  a  few  novel  particulars 
in  the  work  from  which  I  have  already  quoted,  and  I  am  now  about 
to  add  others,  with  which  I  have  since  become  acquainted,  of  a 
most  authentic  kind,  and  of  considerable  importance. 

I  should  begin  by  stating  that  the  most  interesting  of  them  are 
derived  from  the  manuscripts  of  Lord  Ellesmere,  whose  name  is, 
of  course,  well  known  to  every  reader  of  our  history,  as  keeper  of 
the  great  seal  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  arid  lord  chancellor  to  James  I. 
They  are  preserved  at  Bridgewater  House  ;  and  Lord  Francis  Eger- 
ton  gave  me  instant  and  unrestrained  access  to  them,  with  permission 
to  make  use  of  any  literary  or  historical  information  I  could  discover. 
The  Rev.  IT.  J.  Todd  had  been  there  before  me,  and  had  classed 
some  of  the  documents  and  correspondence;  but  large  bundles  of 
papers,  ranging  in  point  of  date  between  1581,  when  Lord  Ellesmere 
was  made  solicitor-general,  and  1610,  when  he  retired  from  the 
office  of  lord  chancellor,  remained  unexplored,  and  it  was  evident 
that  many  of  them  had  never  been  opened  from  the  time  when, 
perhaps,  his  own  hands  tied  them  together. 

Among  these,  in  a  most  unpromising  heap,  chiefly  of  legal  docu 
ments,  I  met  with  most  of  the  new  facts  respecting  Shakspeare, 
which  arc  the  occasion  of  my  present  letter.  I  shall  accompany 
the  statement  of  them  with  other  illustrative  information,  relying 
upon  your  love  for  literary  antiquarianism  to  allow  for  any  false  im 
portance  which  my  zeal  in  the  pursuit  of  such  matters  may  attach 
to  comparative  trifles  :  to  me  it  seems  impossible  to  consider  any 
point,  even  remotely  connected  with  the  history  and  character  of 
our  great  Dramatist,  a  trifle. 

To  make  the  matter  more  intelligible,  I  must  carry  you  back  to 
the  period  when  our  drama  was  first  represented  in  buildings  con 
structed  for  the  purpose. 

The  most  ancient  of  these  were  "the  Theatre"  and  "the  Curtain  " 
in  Shoreditch,  which  I  imagine  were  built  about  the  year  1570. 
The  Blackfriars  playhouse  (where,  in  the  winter,  Shakspeare's 
dramas  were  acted,  the  performances  at  the  Globe,  which  was  open 
to  the  sky,  being  necessarily  confined  to  the  spring,  summer,  and 


THE    LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  xlix 

autumn)  was  erected  by  James  Burbage,  the  father  of  Richard 
Burbage,  in  1576.  As  early  as  1579,  the  city  authorities  endeav 
ored  to  dislodge  the  players  from  this  place  of  refuge,  to  which  they 
had  been  driven  by  the  refusal  of  the  lord  mayor,  aldermen,  and 
common  council,  to  allow  dramatic  representations  within  the 
boundaries  of  their  jurisdiction. 

The  Blackfriars  was  supposed  to  be  a  privileged  precinct,  to 
which  the  power  of  the  lord  mayor  did  not  extend,  the  exemption 
being  derived  from  times  when  the  site  was  occupied  by  the  dwell 
ing  and  grounds  of  a  religious  fraternity.  In  1579,  the  corporation 
endeavored  to  establish  a  right  of  executing  process  there,  and  of 
intruding  a  regular  police.  Certain  inhabitants  of  the  Blackfriars 
also  presented  a  petition  to  the  privy  council  at  the  same  date, 
which,  perhaps,  led  that  body  to  require  the  opinion  of  the  two  chief 
justices  of  the  King's  Bench  and  Common  Pleas,  Sir  Christopher 
Wray  and  Sir  James  Dyer,  upon  the  disputed  question.  Their 
decision  is  among  the  papers  of  Lord  Ellesmere,  and,  without  quot 
ing  it,  for  it  affords  no  information,  it  may  be  stated  that  it  was  in 
favor  of  the  claim  of  the  city  magistrates.  Notwithstanding  this 
powerful  support,  it  is  quite  clear  that  no  step  was  taken  founded 
upon  the  opinion  of  these  great  lawyers,  and  that  James  Burbage 
and  his  associates  continued  their  performances  at  the  Blackfriars 
theatre.  They  were  no  doubt  backed  by  the  powerful  interest  of 
the  Earl  of  Leicester,  who  had  obtained  for  them  the  patent  of  the 
7th  of  May,  1574 ;  and  the  following  is  a  copy  of  the  order  issued 
in  their  behalf  by  the  privy  council,  with  which  I  have  only  recently 
been  made  acquainted  : — 

"  At  the  Court  23rd  of  December  1579. 

"  It  is  ordered  that  the  Playeres  of  the  Erie  of  Leycestre  be  not  restrained, 
nor  in  any  wise  molested  in  the  exercise  of  their  qualitye  at  the  Blackfryars  or 
elswhere  throughout  the  realme  of  England,  so  that  they  be  enabled  the 
better  to  performe  before  her  Maiestie  for  her  solace  and  recreation  this 
Xtenmas." 

It  is  not  likely  that  Shakspeare  joined  James  Burbage's  company 
until  seven  or  eight  years  subsequent  to  1579 :  he  came  to  London 
for  that  purpose  in  1586  or  1587,  according  to  the  most  probable 
conjecture,  and  did  not  begin  to  write  for  the  stage,  even  by  the 
alteration  of  older  plays,  until  1590  or  1591.  The  earliest  date  at 
VOL.  i.  G 


NEW  FACTS   REGARDING 

which  his  name  has  hitherto  been  mentioned  in  connection  with  the 
Blackfriars  theatre,  is  1596,  in  a  petition  to  the  privy  council, 
which  I  first  printed  in  the  "  History  of  Dramatic  Poetry,"  i.,  298; 
but  the  MSS.  at  Bridgewater  House  now  enable  me  to  furnish,  not 
only  the  name  of  Shakspeare,  but  the  names  of  the  whole  company 
of  sharers  seven  years  earlier,  and  only  two  or  three  years  after  our 
great  Dramatist  made  his  first  appearance  in  the  metropolis.  Shak 
speare,  in  November,  15S9,  had  made  such  way  in  his  profession,  as 
to  establish  himself  a  sharer  with  fifteen  others,  eleven  of  whose 
names  precede  his  in  the  list,  and  only  four  follow  it.  They  stand 
thus,  and  the  enumeration  is  on  other  accounts  remarkable  : — 

James  Burbage. 
Richard  Burbage. 
John  Laneham. 
Thomas  Greene. 
Robert  Wilson. 
John  Taylor. 
Anthony  Wadeson. 
Thomas  Pope. 
George  Peele. 
Augustine  Phillips. 
Nicholas  Towley. 
William  Shakespeare. 
William  Kempe. 
William  Johnson. 
Baptist  Goodall. 
Robert  Armyn. 

This  information  seems  to  me  to  give  a  sufficient  contradiction 
to  the  idle  story  of  Shakspeare  having  commenced  his  career  by 
holding  horses  at  the  playhouse  door :  had  such  been  the  fact,  he 
would  hardly  have  risen  to  the  rank  of  a  sharer  in  1589,  as  it  indis 
putably  appears  he  was,  on  the  authority  of  the  subsequent  document, 
which  must  have  been  transmitted  to  Lord  Ellesmere  with  others  of 
which  I  shall  speak  hereafter. 

;;  Those  are  to  certifie  your  right  Honble  Lordships  that  her  Maiesties  poore 
Playeres,  James  Burbadge,  Richard  Burbadge,  John  Laneham.  Thomas 
Greene.  Robert  Wilson,  John  Taylor,  Anth.  Wadeson,  Thomas  Pope.  George 
IVcle,  Augustine  Phillipps,  Nicholas  Towley,  William  Shakespeare,  William 
Kernpe,  William  Johnson,  Baptiste  Goodale,  and  Robert  Armyn,  being  all  of 
them  sharers  in  the  blacke  Fryers  playehouse,  have  never  given  cause  of  dis- 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  ll 

pleasure,  in  that  they  have  brought  into  theire  playes  maters  of  state  and  Re 
ligion,  vnfitt  to  bee  handled  by  them  or  to  bee  presented  before  lewde  specta 
tors  :  neither  hath  anie  cornplaynte  in  that  kinde  ever  bene  preferrde  against 
them  or  anie  of  them.  Wherefore  they  trust  rnoste  humblie  in  your  Lord 
ships'  consideration  of  their  former  good  behaviour,  being  at  all  tymes  readie 
and  willing  to  yeelde  obedience  to  any  command  whatsoever  your  Lordships 
in  your  wisdome  may  thinke  in  such  case  meete,"  &c. 

«  Novr.  1589." 

A  brief  reference  to  the  circumstances  of  the  time  will  show  how 
this  certificate  became  necessary.  In  consequence  of  the  license 
taken  by  several  companies  of  players  in  London  to  introduce  upon 
the  stage  religion  and  politics,  by  dramas  having  reference  to  the 
Martin-Marprelate  controversy,  Lord  Burghley  wrote  to  the  lord 
mayor,  in  the  beginning  of  November,  1589,  directing  him  to  make 
inquiry  what  companies  of  players  had  offended;  and  on  the  12th 
of  November  of  the  same  year,  the  privy  council  addressed  letters 
to  the  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the  lord  mayor,  and  the  master  of 
the  revels,  for  the  appointment  of  three  persons  to  examine  into 
and  to  remedy  the  abuse.  Upon  this  occasion  it  was  that  the  pre 
ceding  certificate  was  sent  to  the  privy  council,  to  exonerate  the 
Queen's  Players  at  the  Blackfriars  from  the  charge.  These  facts 
are  given  in  detail  in  the  "  History  of  Dramatic  Poetry,"  i.,  271, 
&c. ;  and  I  wish  I  could  there  have  added  the  very  curious  docu 
ment  I  have  above  quoted. 

Thus  we  see  that,  in  15S9,  Shakspeare's  name  's  placed  twelfth 
in  the  list  of  the  sixteen  members  of  the  company.  In  1596,  he 
had  so  far  advanced  that  it  was  inserted  fifth,  when  only  eight  of 
the  association  were  named  :  in  1603,  he  was  second  in  the  new 
patent  granted  by  King  James  on  his  accession.  How  much 
weight  is  due  to  these  locations,  and  what  inferences  we  may  fairly 
draw  from  them,  it  is  not  easy  to  decide,  but  they  certainly  show 
that  Shakspeare,  from  the  first,  was  gradually  making  his  way  to 
greater  prominence  of  station. 

James  Burbage  was  buried  in  February,  1596-7,  leaving  to  his 
son  Richard  (who  had  then  risen  to  the  highest  eminence  as  an 
actor)  his  property  in  the  Blackfriars  theatre.  This  seems  to  have 
been  thought  a  good  opportunity  for  again  endeavoring  to  dislodge 
the  players  ;  but,  although  it  is  indisputable  that  some  of  the  principal 


Jii  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

inhabitants  of  the  exempted  precinct  petitioned  the  privy  council  for 
the  removal  of  what  they  represented  as  a  nuisance,  there  is  no  direct 
evidence  to  show  that  the  corporation  of  London  interfered  upon  this 
occasion.  The  attempt  again  failed,  on  the  counter-petition  of  the 
company,  the  general  good  conduct  of  which,  as  asserted  in  the  pre 
ceding  certificate,  added  to  the  partiality  of  the  queen  and  court  for 
theatrical  amusements,  having  enabled  it  to  withstand  the  represen 
tations  of  very  powerful  opponents.  At  this  date,  her  "  Majesty's 
Servants"  not  only  exhibited  at  the  Blackfriars,  but  at  the  Globe  in 
Southwark,  which  had  been  open  for  about  two  years.  From  the 
residence  of  Richard  Burbage  in  Shoreditch,  and  from  the  possession 
of  shares  in  the  Curtain  theatre  by  one  or  more  of  the  chief  actors 
associated  with  him  arid  Shakspeare,  it  seems  probable  that,  before 
the  erection  of  the  Globe,  in  1594,  they  had  occasionally  used 
the  Curtain  theatre  as  well  as  the  Blackfriars,  perhaps  in  conjunction 
with  the  Lord  Admiral's  Servants. 

The  enmity  between  the  corporation  of  London  and  the  actors 
at  the  Blackfriars,  seems  never  to  have  abated,  but  to  have  been 
constantly  kept  alive  by  the  exertions  of  the  civic  authorities  to 
remove  the  players,  and  by  the  endeavors  of  the  players,  now  and 
then,  to  retaliate  :  the  proverbial  wisdom  of  the  citizens,  and  the 
immaculate  fidelity  of  their  wives,  are  constant  themes  in  many  of 
our  old  plays  ;  and,  when  Leonard  Haliday  was  lord  mayor,  in  1605, 
a  formal  complaint  was  sent  to  the  privy  council,  that  some  of  the 
aldermen  had  been  brought  upon  the  stage  by  the  company  per 
forming  within  the  privileged  precinct.  Upon  this  point  I  have 
met  with  the  following  singular  memorandum,  which  is  worth 
preserving,  though  it  does  not  directly  illustrate  the  personal  history 
of  Shakspeare,  and  though,  as  his  dramas  are  remarkably  free  from 
attacks  of  the  kind,  it  is  very  improbable  that  he  had  any  concern 
in  the  transaction. 

"  LENARD  HALIDAY  Maior  1005. 

Whereas  Kempe.  Armyn  and  others,  Plaiers  at  the  Blacke  Fryers,  have 
again  not  forborne  to  bring  vpon  their  stage  one  or  more  of  the  worshipfull 
Aldermen  of  the  City  of  London,  to  their  great  scandal!  and  to  the  lessening  of 
their  autliorily,  the  Lords  of  the  right  honorable  the  Privy  Counsell  are  be- 
sono-ht  to  call  the  said  Players  before  them  and  to  enquire  into  the  same,  that 
order  niiiy  be  taken  to  remedy  the  abuse,  either  by  putting  down  or  removing 
the  said  Theatre." 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  liii 

Hence  it  is  clear  that  this  was  not  the  first  offence  of  the  kind. 
Kempe  and  Armin  were  the  low  comedians  of  the  company,  and 
perhaps  made  what  was  then  technically  called  "a  Merriment,"  or 
"  a  Jig,"  of  which  the  actors  were  usually  the  authors,  at  the  expense 
of  some  members  of  the  corporation  :  sometimes  these  comic  sallies 
were  dialogues,  but  usually  monologues  and  songs. 

Perhaps  the  impunity  of  the  actors  in  this  respect,  which  encour 
aged  fresh  insults,  induced  the  city  authorities,  in  1GOS,  again  to 
endeavor  to  establish  their  right  to  the  superintendence  of  the 
precinct  of  the  Blackfriars.  Certain  it  is,  as  appears  by  other 
documents  I  discovered  at  Bridgewater  House,  that  the  question 
was  then  revived ;  and,  besides  adducing  the  certificate  of  the  two 
chief  justices  in  1579,  the  corporation  procured  the  opinion  of  Sir 
Henry  Montagu  in  its  favor,  and  laid  it  before  Lord  Ellesmere, 
with  a  view  to  the  final  determination  of  the  dispute.  He  endorsed 
it  with  his  own  hand,  and  the  endorsement  is  material,  as  it  furnishes 
the  date—"  23  July  1608.  Sr.  Henry  Mountagu,  for  the  Blackfre- 
ars."  Sir  Henry  Montagu  seems  to  have  relied  chiefly  on  the 
decision  of  the  chief  justices,  "Wray  and  Dyer;  but  Lord  Ellesmere 
called  for  proofs  of  the  exercise  by  the  city  of  a  jurisdiction  within 
the  privileged  precinct.  Whether  he  obtained  them,  does  not  appear 
— probably  not,  or  they  would  have  been  found  with  the  other 
documents,  particularly  as  one  of  those  remaining  is  thus  headed : 
— "  Prooffs  by  record  that  the  Citie  of  London  hath  not  any  jurisdic 
tion  within  the  Blacke  Fryars,  but  that  it  is  a  place  exempted  from 
it."  This  evidence  had,  of  course,  been  supplied  by  the  opposite 
party,  the  players,  but  it  applies  only  to  the  reigns  of  Edward  the 
First  and  his  son  :  judging,  however,  from  the  result,  the  "proofs" 
were  satisfactory,  and  the  company  was  not  disturbed. 

The  inquiry  instituted  at  this  date  throws  a  strong  and  certain 
light  upon  the  interesting  question  of  the  amount  of  Shakspeare's 
property  about  five  years  before  he  retired  to  his  native  town,  to 
enjoy  in  tranquillity  the  fruits  of  his  genius  and  industry  during  the 
busy  period  of  his  life,  extending  from  15?6  or  1537,  when  he 
probably  first  came  to  London,  to  1612  or  1613,  when  he  quitted  it. 

Defeated  in  the  attempt  to  cxpnl  "the  King's  Servants"  (for 
this  was  the  title  the  actors  at  the  Blackfriars  and  Globe  theatres 
acquired  by  the  privy  seal  of  1603),  by  force  of  law,  the  corporation 


liv  NEW  FACTS   REGARDING 

seems  to  have  endeavored  to  come  to  terms  with  them,  with  a  view 
of  buying  them  out;  and  among  the  papers  of  Lord  Ellesmere  is  a 
minute  and  curious  account,  showing  the  precise  interest  of  all  the 
principal  persons  connected  with  the  company  in  1608,  and  among 
the  rest  of  Shakspeare  himself.  It  is  evident  that  it  was  drawn  up 
in  order  to  ascertain  what  sum  it  would  be  necessary  for  the  cor 
poration  to  pay  to  the  players  for  removal ;  and  it  must  have  been 
laid  before  the  lord  chancellor,  with  other  documents  connected 
with  the  inquiry.  Hence  we  learn  that  Shakspeare's  property  in 
the  Blackfriars  theatre,  including  the  wardrobe  and  properties, 
which  were  exclusively  his,  was  estimated  at  more  than  1400/., 
which  would  be  equal  to  between  GOOD/,  and  7QOO/.  of  our  present 
money.  Burbage  was  even  richer,  as  the  owner  of  what  is  called 
"the  fee  "of  the  playhouse;  and  perhaps  he,  or  his  father,  had 
bought  the  ground  on  which  it  stood,  as  well  as  the  building. 
However,  it  will  be  better  first  to  insert  a  literal  copy  of  the  account, 
and  afterwards  to  offer  some  remarks  upon  it.  The  paper  is  en 
titled 

"FOR  AVOIDING  OF  THE  PLAYHOUSE  IN  THE    PRECINCT  OF 
THE  BLACKE  FRIERS. 

Imp.  Richard  Burbidge  cnveth  the  Fee,  and  is  alsoe  a  sharer 
therein.  His  interest  he  rateth  at  the  grosse  summe  of 
1000U  for  the  Fee,  and  for  his  foure  shares  the  summe  of 

93311  (js.  $A. 1933»-    69-  8d- 

Item  La/  Fletcher  o\vith  three  shnres  which  he  rateth  at  700H. 
that  is  :\t  7  voares  purchase  for  each  share  or  331'-  0s-  8d- 

one  yea  re  \\  it.li  an  other 700  '• 

Item  \V.  Shakespeare  askeih  for  the  Wardrobe  and  properties 
of  the  same  play  house  fjOO1'  and  for  his  4  shares,  the  same 
a-  Irs  fellows  Pmrlml-e  and  Fletcher  viz  033"-  (>*  &'-...  14:13"-  0s-  8'!. 

!ten       Hen-iinges  and  Condell  eche  2  shares 033»-     Gs-  8J- 

Item     Joseph  Taylor  1  share  and  an  halfe 350U- 

Item     Lowing  also  one  share  and  an  halfe 3«>01:- 

Item     Foure   more    play e res  with  one  halfe  share  to  echo  of 

4HO".  13-  4d- 


Sum'1  totalis OKJO.    13.   4 

"  Moreover,  the  hired  men  of  the  Companie  demaund  some  recompense  fol 
their  great  losse,  and  the  Widows  and  Orphancs  of  Playeres.  who  are   paidc 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  Iv 

by  the  Sharers  at  diners  rates  and  proportions,  so  as  in  the  whole  it  will  coste 
the  Lo.  Mayor  and  the  Citizens  at  the  least  700011-" 

This,  you  will  own  at  once,  is  a  very  singular,  as  well  as  a  very 
valuable  document,  considering  how  scanty  has  hitherto  been  all 
our  information  regarding  the  pecuniary  circumstances  of  our  great 
Poet.  Till  now,  all  has  depended  upon  conjecture,  both  as  to  the 
value  of  theatrical  property  generally  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare, 
and  as  to  the  particular  sum  he  may  be  supposed  to  have  realized 
as  an  author  of  plays  and  as  an  actor  of  them.  Malone  "  suspected 
that  the  whole  clear  receipt  of  a  theatre  was  divided  into  forty 
shares"  (Shakspeare  by  Boswell,  iii.,  170),  and  proceeds  to  guess 
at  the  mode  in  which  the  money  was  distributed.  Here  we  have 
positive  proof,  that,  at  the  Blackfriars  at  least  the  profits  were  di 
vided  into  twenty  shares :  of  these 

Burbage  had  4  Shares. 

Fletcher  3  Shares. 

Shakspeare  4  Shares. 

Hernming-s  2  Shares. 

Condell  2  Shares. 

Taylor  and  Lowen  3  Shares. 

Four  other  Actors  2  Shares. 

Burbage  and  Shakspeare,  therefore,  in  the  number  of  their  shares, 
were  upon  equal  terms  :  the  former,  as  the  owner  of  "  the  fee,"  was 
probably  paid  the  rent  of  the  theatre,  which,  I  shall  hereafter  show, 
from  a  document  of  a  subsequent  date,  was  then  59/.  per  annum; 
and  the  latter,  as  the  owner  of  the  wardrobe  and  properties,  no 
doubt  obtained  as  large  a  sum  for  the  use  of  them.  Though  they 
are  only  estimated  at  half  the  value  of  "  the  fee,"  yet  wear  and  tear 
is  to  be  taken  into  the  account.  We  are  to  presume  that  the 
materials  for  this  statement  were  derived  from  the  actors,  and  that 
they  made  out  their  loss  as  large  as  it  could  well  be  shown  to  be, 
with  a  view  to  gaining  full  compensation ;  but  if  each  share  pro 
duced  on  an  average,  or  (to  use  the  terms  of  the  document)  " one 
year  with  another,"  337.  6.s.  8d.,  the  twenty  shares  would  net  an 
annual  sum  of  666?.  13>.  4r/.,  or  somewhat  less  than  3,4007.  of  oui 
present  money.  Shakspeare's  annual  income  from  the  receipts  at 
the  Blackfriars  theatre,  without  the  amount  paid  him  for  the  use  of 
the  wardrobe  and  properties,  would  therefore  be  133/.  Gs.  Sd.  It 
is  possible,  however,  that  there  might  be  a  deduction  for  his  propor 
tion  of  the  rent  to  Burbage,  and  of  the  salaries  to  the  "  hired  men,' 


Jvi  NEW  FACTS   REGARDING 

who  were  always  paid  by  the  sharers.  To  this  income  would  be 
to  be  added  the  sums  he  received  for  either  new  or  altered  plays. 
At  about  this  date,  it  appears  that  from  12A  to  25/.  were  usually 
given  for  new  dramatic  productions.  Much  would  of  course  depend 
upon  the  popularity  of  the  author. 

We  have  a  right  to  conclude  that  the  Globe  was  at  least  as  profit 
able  as  theBlackfriars  :  it  was  a  public  theatre  of  larger  dimensions, 
and  the  performances  took  place  at  a  season  when,  probably,  play 
houses  were  more  frequented  :  if  not,  why  should  they  have  been 
built  so  as  to  contain  a  more  numerous  audience?  At  the  lowest 
computation,  therefore,  I  should  be  inclined  to  put  Shakspeare's 
yearly  income  at  300/.,  or  not  far  short  of  1,500/.  of  our  present 
money.  We  are  to  recollect  that,  in  1G08,  he  hud  produced  most 
of  his  greatest  works;  the  plausible  conjecture  being,  that  he  wrote 
only  five  or  six  plays  between  that  year  and  his  final  retirement 
from  London.  In  what  way,  and  for  what  amount,  he  previously 
disposed  of  his  interest  in  the  Blackfriars  and  Globe  theatres,  it  is 
useless  to  attempt  to  speculate. 

By  "  Laz  Fletcher,"  in  the  preceding  account,  we  are  doubtless 
to  understand  Laurence,  or  Larence,  Fletcher,  the  first-named 
patentee  in  King  James's  grant  of  1603.  The  document  last 
quoted  seems  to  have  been  prepared  in  the  summer  of  1608,  and 
Fletcher  was  buried  on  the  12th  of  September  of  that  year.  That 
he  was  an  actor,  we  know  by  the  will  of  Augustine  Phillips,  but 
upon  no  other  authority  ;  and  perhaps  he  owed  his  shares  in  the 
theatre  to  his  influence  in  procuring  the  patent.  Ilemmings,  or 
Hemminge,  and  Condell  became  leaders  of  the  company  after  the 
death  of  Burbago  in  March,  1619.  It  is  a  feature  in  the  character 
of  Burbage,  that  he  was  a  painter  as  well  as  an  actor.  This  fact 
is  confirmed  by  an  epitaph  upon  him  by  his  contemporary,  Thomas 
Middlcton,  the  dramatist,  which  I  found  in  a  MS.  miscellany  of 
poetry  belonging  to  the  late  Mr.  Heber  :  the  collection  appears  to 
have  been  made  about  the  year  1630,  and  the  epitaph  runs  thus:— 

"  On  the  death  of  that  great  Mr.  in   his  art  and  quality  (painting  and  play 
ing)  R.  Burbage. 

"  Astronomers  and  star-gazers  this  year 
Write  but  of  foure  Eclipses— five  appeare 
Death  interposing  Burbage.  and  their  staying 

Hath  made  a  visible  Eclipse  of  playing. 

TlIO.  MiDBLETOK." 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEAIIE.  Ivil 

This,  it  must  be  owned,  is  rather  obscure;  but  "  their  staying  " 
perhaps  means  that,  in  consequence  of  the  death  of  so  great  an 
ornament  of  the  stage,  the  theatre  was  for  a  time  closed.  Hem- 
minge  and  Condell,  as  every  body  knows,  were  the  editors  of 
the  first  folio  edition  of  Shakspeare  in  1623.  Taylor  and  Lowen 
were  actors  of  eminence,  and  seem  to  have  come  into  the  manage 
ment  of  the  King's  Servants,  first  in  conjunction  with  Hemminge, 
and  subsequently  without  his  partnership. 

I  have  stated  that,  at  a  date  subsequent  to  1608,  the  rent  of  the 
Black  friars  theatre  was  50/.  a  year  :  this  was  the  case  in  1633,  when 
the  company  of  the  King's  Servants  held  it  upon  a  lease  from  Cuth- 
bert  and  William  Burbage,  doubtless  the  sons  of  Richard  Burbage, 
who  inherited  the  property  from  their  father.  In  that  year,  the 
privy  council  "  entertained  the  plan  of  removing  the  playhouse, 
and  of  making  compensation  to  the  parties  "  ("  History  of  Dramatic 
Poetry,"  ii.,  50) ;  but,  when  I  wrote  this  passage,  I  was  not  aware 
of  the  existence  of  the  original  report  on  the  value  of  the  property, 
made  by  the  aldermen  of  the  ward  and  two  other  magistrates, 
which  is  now  in  my  possession,  and  of  which  I  subjoin  a  copy  in  a 
note,  because  it  may  serve  as  some  guide  to  the  worth  of  the  concern 
at  the  time  of  the  death  of  Shakspeare,  or  when  he  quitted  the 
metropolis  for  Stratford  upon  Avon.* 

*  Certificate  from  the  Justices  of  the  Peace  of  the  County  of  Middlesex  about  the  Black- 
fryers. 

May  it  plsase  your  Lordshipps.  According  to  the  order  of  this  honorable  Board  of  the  9th 
of  October  last  wee  haue  had  diners  meeteings  at  the  Blacke-Fryers,  and  haucing  first  viewed 
the  Playhouse  there,  we  haue  called  vnto  us  the  chiefs  of  the  Players,  and  such  as  haue 
interest  in  the  said  Tlayhouse  and  the  buildings  thereunto  belonging  (which  wee  alsoe 
viewed)  who  pretendinge  an  exceeding  greate  losse,  and  allmost  vn<Uiii)g  to  many  of  them, 
and  especially  to  diuers  widowes  and  orphanes  hauing  interest  therein,  if  they  should  be 
remoued  from  playing  there,  we  required  them  to  make  a  reasonable  demaund  of  recom 
pense  for  such  interest  as  they  or  any  of  them  had  therein  :  Whereupon  their  first  demaund 
being  in  a  grosse  sume  16000H  wee  required  them  to  sett  downe  particularly  in  writing  how, 
and  from  whense  such  a  demaund  could  arise,  and  gave  them  time  for  it.  At  our  next 
meeteing  they  accordingly  presented  vnto  us  a  particular  note  thereof  which  amounted  to 
21,9901i-  But  wee  descending  to  an  examination  of  their  interest  in  their  housos  ai:J  buil  !- 
iii23  they  there  possess,  and  the  indifferent  valuation  thereof,  haue  with  their  owne  consent 
valued  the  same  as  followeth. 

First  for  the  Playhouse  itselfe,  whereof  the  Company  hath  taken  a  Lease  tor  diuers  yeare3 
yet  to  come  of  Cuthbert  Burbidge  and  William  Burbidge  (who  haue  the  inheiitance  thereof) 
at  the  Rent  of  50'i  per  Ann,  wee  value  the  same  after  the  same  rate  at  14  yeaies  purchase,  as 
an  indifferent  recompence  to  the  Burbidges,  which  cometh  to  700'i. 

For  4  Tenements  neare  adioyning  to  the  Playhouse,  for  the  which  they  receiue  75'i  per 

VOL.    I.  H 


Iviii  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

It  seems  by  this  document,  that  the  company  first  put  a  gross 
sum  of  1(),000/.  upon  the  Blackfriars  theatre  and  its  appurtenances 
— that,  being  called  upon  for  particulars,  they  advanced  their  claim 
to  \M, 9907. ;  but  that  the  magistrates,  extraordinary  as  it  may  seem, 
subsequently  reduced  the  whole  demand  to  only  2,9007.  135.  4.d. 
There  is  every  reason  to  suppose  that  many  circumstances,  into 
which  I  need  not  now  enter,  had  rendered  the  undertaking  less 
profitable  in  1633  than  it  had  been  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  and 
down  to  the  period  when  his  plays  ceased  to  be  as  popular  as  they 
had  been  made  bv  Richard  Burbage. 

In  connection  with  the  question  of  the  property  of  our  great 
Dramatist,  I  may  notice  another  document  of  some  curiosity,  which 
was  pointed  out  to  me  among  the  fines  preserved  at  the  Chapter 
House,  Westminster,  subsequent  to  the  publication  of  my  book.  It 
relates  to  the  purchase,  in  1603,  of  a  messuage,  with  barn,  granary, 
garden,  and  orchard,  at  Stratford  upon  Avon,  for  60^.  In  May, 
1602,  as  is  stated  in  most  of  the  recent  memoirs  of  Shakspeare, 
he  had  bought  107  acres  of  land,  which  he  attached  to  his  house 
of  New  Place,  and  in  the  same  month  of  the  subsequent  year  (as 
is  no  where  mentioned)  he  made  this  additional  bargain  with  Her 
cules  Underbill.  A  copy  of  the  document,  in  its  original  form,  is 
worth  insertion  in  a  note.* 


Ann  rent,  and  for  a  voide  piece  of  ground  there  to  turne  coaches  in,  which  they  value  at  GH 
per  Ann,  makeing  together  811'  per  Ann,  the  purchase  thereof,  at  14  yeares  likewise,  cometh 
to  1131'.!. 

They  dcinaund  further  in  respect  of  the  interest  that  some  of  them  haue  by  lease  in  the 
said  Playhouse,  and  in  respect  of  the  shares  which  others  haue  in  the  benefit  thereof,  and 
for  the  damage  they  all  pretend  they  shall  sustaine  by  their  reinoue,  not  knowing  where  to 
settle  tliem.selvr<  again e  ;tln.'y  being  1C  in  number)  the  sume  of  2400H  viz  to  each  of  them 
l.r>()li-  But  wee  conceive  they  may  be  brought  to  accept  of  the  summc  of  10GGH  ]3$.  4d 
which  is  to  each  of  them  100  markes. 

All  which  we  humbly  leave  to  your  Lordshipps  graue  consideration.  Your  Lordshipps 
most  humbly  to  be  commanded 

HE:   Si>ii.LEK. 

WILL.  BAKER. 
HUMPHREY  SMITH. 
IJA.WR.  WHITAKER. 
WILLM.  CHILDE. 

20  NOV.  ir.:w. 

*  TI;cc  e<t  finalis  Concordia  farta  in  Curia  Dn.T.  Regime  apud  Westm.  a  die  Sci.  Michis. 
in  unum  mensem  Anno  rejrnorum  Elizabeths  Dei  gratia  Anglirc  Francirr;  &  Hibernian 
Regina;  Fidei  iJefensor.  &c.  a  conrpi.  quadragosiino  quarto  coram  Edo.  Anderson  Thoma 
Walrnysb  y  Cuorgio  Kingesinyll  &L  i'etro  Warburton,  Justic.  &,  aliis  Dmr.  Regime  fidelibus 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  lix 

It  is  known  that,  in  1605,  Shakspeare  gave  4407.  for  the  lease  of 
a  moiety  of  the  great  and  small  tithes  of  Stratford ;  so  that  the 
author  of  the  anonymous  tract  called  Ratsey's  Ghost  (printed  without 
date,  but  riot  earlier  than  1606)  might  well  make  his  hero  tell  the 
poor  itinerant  player,  in  obvious  reference  to  the  success  of  Shak 
speare,  "  When  thou  feelest  thy  purse  well  lined,  buy  tlicc  some 
place  of  lordship  in  the  country,  that,  growing  weary  of  playing,  thy 
money  may  there  bring  thee  to  high  dignity  and  reputation,  *  *  *  for 
I  have  heard  indeed  of  some  that  have  gone  to  London  very  meanly  t 
and  have  come  in  time  to  be  exceeding  wealthy"  Shakspeare  came 
to  London  a  penniless  fugitive,  and  returned,  "  weary  of  playing" 
and  of  plays,  to  spend  his  last  years  in  his  birthplace,  compara 
tively  in  "  high  dignity  and  reputation,"  and,  if  not  "  exceeding 
wealthy,"  with  a  very  comfortable  independence.  In  a  previous  part 
of  the  same  paragraph,  the  author  of  Ratsey's  Ghost  clearly  refers 
to  Burbage  as  the  original  performer  of  Hamlet  (a  point  now  be 
yond  dispute,  to  the  rejection  of  the  claim  of  Joseph  Taylor,  whose 
name  has  already  been  inserted),  which  brings  me  to  another  very 
interesting  document  preserved  at  Bridgewater  House. 

It  is  the  copy  of  a  letter  signed  H.  S.,  and  addressed,  as  we  must 
conclude,  to  Lord  Ellesmere,  in  order  to  induce  him  to  exert  him 
self  on  behalf  of  the  players  at  Blackfriars  when  assailed  by  the 
corporation  of  London.  It  has  no  date  ;  but  the  internal  evidence 


tune  ibi  preseritibus.  INTER  WILLM.  SHAKESPEARE  generosum  Clner.  er.  Herculem  Under- 
liill  generosum  Before,  de  uno  mesuagio  duobus  Horrcis  duobus  gardinis  &  duobus  pomarijs 
cum  pertin.  in  Strctford  super  Avon:  Unde  Pliicitum  conventionis  sum.  fuit  inter  eos  in 
eiidem  Curia  Scilt.  qd  predictus  Hercules  recogn.  predicta  ten.  cum  pertin.  esse  jus  ipsius 
Willi  ut  ill.  qiite  idem  Wills,  het.  de  dono  predicti  Herculis.  Et  ill.  romisit  <fc  qnietelam  de 
sc  &.  hered.  suis  predicto  Willo.  &  hered.  suis  in  perpetuum.  Et  predicta  idem  Hercules 
concessit  pro  se  &  hered.  suis  qd  ipsi  warant.  predicto  Willo.  <fc  hered.  suis  predicta  ten 
cum  pertin.  contra  predictum  Herculem  &.  hered.  suos  in  perpetuum.  Et  pro  line  recogn. 
rernissione  quietelam  Warant.  fine  &  concordia  idem  Wills,  dedit  predicto  Ilerculi  se.xaginta 

libras  sterlingorum 

WARE. 

Secundum  form  am  Statuti. 

! 

Prima  proclam.  facta  fuit  vicesimo  nono  die  Xovembris  t'mio.  Sci.  IMichis.  Anno  quadra- 
gesimo  quinto  Reginrc  infrascr.  Secunda  proclam.  facta  fuit  primo  die  FHminr.  t'mio.  Sci. 
Hillar.  Anno  quadragesimo  quinto  Reginns  infrascr.  Tertia  proclam.  facta  fuit  decimo 
octavo  die  Maij  t'mio.  Pasche,  Anno  regnorum  Jacobi  Dei  gra.  Angl.  Scotia;  Franc.  &  Ilibn. 
Regis,  fidei  Defensor.  &c.  Angl.  Franc.  &  Hibn.  primo,  &.  Pcotiie  tricesimo  sexto.  Quarta 
proclam.  facta  fuit  vicesimo  quinto  die  Junij,  t'mio.  Sera.  Trinitatis,  Anno  priino  Regig 
supradictil 


Ix  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

it  contains  shows  that,  in  all  probability,  it  refers  to  the  attempt  at 
dislodgment  made  in  the  year  1608,  and  it  was  in  the  same  bundle 
as  the  paper  giving  a  detail  of  the  particular  claims  of  Burbage, 
Fletcher,  Shakspeare,  and  the  rest. 

I  do  not  recollect  any  instances  of  letters  of  a  precisely  similar 
kind  of  so  old  a  date,  but  they  no  doubt  exist :  it  contains  a  personal 
introduction  of  Richard  Burbage  and  William  Shakspeare,  by  their 
names  and  professions,  to  the  individual  to  whom  it  was  addressed, 
in  order  that  they  might  state  to  him  their  case,  and  interest  him 
in  behalf  of  the  persecuted  players.  The  initials  H.  S.,  at  the  end, 
I  take  to  be  those  of  Henry  Southampton,  who  was  the  noble  patron 
of  Shakspeare,  and  who,  in  this  very  letter,  calls  the  Poet  his  "  espe 
cial  friend."  It  is  natural  to  suppose  that  the  young  nobleman  who 
had  presented  Shakspeare  (if  such  be  the  fact,  and  there  is  no 
sufficient  reason  to  deny  it)  with  1,000/.  as  a  free  gift  not  many 
years  before,  would  take  the  strongest  interest  in  his  welfare.  If 
you  feel  at  all  as  I  did  when  I  first  discovered  the  letter,  you  will 
not  thank  me  for  this  "  fearful  commenting"  before  I  insert  it.  It 
has  no  direction,  and  the  copy  was  apparently  made  on  half  a  sheet 
of  paper  ;  but  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  the  original  was  placed 
in  the  hands  of  Lord  Ellesmere  by  Burbage  or  by  Shakspeare,  when 
they  waited  upon  the  lord  chancellor  in  company. 

"  My  vcrie  honored  Lord.  The  raanie  good  offices  I  haue  received  at  your 
Lordships  hands,  which  ought  to  make  me  backward  in  asking  further  favors, 
onely  imbouldens  me  to  require  more  in  the  same  kinde.  Your  Lordship  will 
be  warned  howe  hereafter  you  graunt  anie  sute,  seeing  it  draweth  on  more  and 
greater  dcmaunds.  This  which  now  presseth  is  to  request  your  Lordship,  in 
all  you  can,  to  be  good  to  the  poore  players  of  the  Black  Fryers,  who  call  them 
selues  by  authentic  the  Seruaunts  of  his  Majestic,  and  aske  for  the  protection 
of  their  most  graceous  Maister  and  Sovereigne  in  this  the  tyme  of  their  troble. 
They  are  threatened  by  the  Lord  Ma.ior  and  Aldermen  of  London,  never 
friendly  to  their  calling,  with  the  distruction  of  their  meanes  of  livelihood,  by 
the  pulling  downe  of  theiie  plaichouse,  which  is  a  private  Theatre,  and  hath 
neuer  giuen  ucasion  of  anger  by  anie  disorders.  These  bearers  are  two  oi  the 
chief'e  of  the  companie  ;  one  of  them  by  name  Richard  Burbidge,  who  humblic 
sueth  for  your  Lordships  kinde  helpe,  for  that  he  is  a  man  famous  as  our  Eng 
lish  Roscius,  one  who  fitteth  the  action  to  the  word  and  the  word  to  the  action 
rncst  admirably.  By  the  exercise  of  his  qualitye  industry  and  good  behaviour, 
ne  hath  be  come  possessed  of  the  Blacke  Fryers  playhouse,  which  hath  bene 
imployed  for  playes  sithence  it  \\as  buildcd  by  his  Father  now  nere  50  yeres 


THE   LIFE  OF   SHAKSPEARE.  Lxi 

agone.  The  other  is  a  man  no  whitt  lesse  deserving  favor,  and  my 
especial!  friende,  till  of  late  an  actor  of  good  account  in  the  cumpanie,  now  a 
sharer  in  the  same,  and  writer  of  some  of  our  best  English  playes,  which  as 
your  Lordship  knoweth  were  most  singularly  liked  of  Quene  Elizabeth,  when 
the  cumpanie  was  called  vppon  to  performe  before  her  Matie  at  Court  at 
Christmas  and  Shrovetide.  His  most  gracious  Matie  King  James  alsoe,  since 
his  coming  to  the  crowne,  hath  extended  his  royall  favour  to  the  companie  in 
divers  waies  and  at  sundrie  tymes.  This  other  hath  to  name  William  Shake 
speare,  and  they  are  both  of  one  countie,  and  indeede  almost  of  one  towne  : 
both  are  right  famous  in  their  quality es  though  it  longeth  not  to  your  Lo. 
gravitie  and  wisedome  to  resort  unto  the  places  where  they  are  wont  to  delight 
the  publique  eare.  Their  trust  and  sute  nowe  is  not  to  bee  molested  in  their 
waye  of  life  whereby  they  maintaine  them  selves  and  their  wives  and  families 
(being  both  maried  and  of  good  reputation)  as  well  as  the  widowes  and 
orphanes  of  some  of  their  dead  fellows. 

"  Your  Lo.  most  bounden  at  com. 

"H.  S. 
"  Copia  vera.*' 

You  will  not  fail  to  observe  that  Lord  Southampton  (if,  as  there 
is  little  question  in  my  mind,  the  letters  H.  S.  are  to  be  taken  as 
his  initials),  speaking  of  the  performances  of  Burbage,  makes  use 
of  a  celebrated  expression  from  Hamlet  (Act  iii.,  sc.  2),  where  the 
prince  is  giving  directions  to  the  players — "  Suit  the  action  to  the 
word,  and  the  word  to  the  action  " — which  contains  in  one  short 
sentence  the  whole  art  and  mystery  of  dramatic  personation.  It 
was  applicable  to  Burbage  upon  all  accounts,  but  especially  as  the 
first  representative  of  Hamlet :  that  he  was  so,  we  know,  not  only 
from  the  positive  assertion  of  the  epitaph  upon  Burbage  ("  History 
of  Dramatic  Poetry,"  i.,  430),  but  from  the  author  of  Rat  try's 
Ghost,  a  tract  I  have  already  quoted  : — "  Get  thee  to  London  (said 
Ratsey  to  the  country  actor),  for,  if  one  man  were  dead,  they  will 
have  much  need  of  such  as  thou  art :  there  would  be  none  in  my 
opinion  fitter  than  thyself  to  play  his  parts.  My  conceit  is  such 
of  thee,  that  I  durst  all  the  money  in  my  purse  on  thy  head  to  play 
Hamlet  with  him  for  a  wager."*  This  was  written  about  1600, 


*  It  is  doubtful,  from  the  epitaph  on  Burbage,  inserted  in  the  "  History  of  Dramatic 
Poetry,"  i.,  430,  whether  the  words  "  cruel  Moor  "  apply  to  Othello,  or  Aaron  in  Titu*  Aiidnmi- 
CM.S- ;  but  the  following  eulogy  upon  Burbage,  at  the  end  of  a  ballad  founded  upon  Shak- 
speare's  play,  and  entitled  The  Travcdie  of  Othello  the  J\Lx,rr,  settles  the  point,  and  is  other 
wise  very  interesting  in  reference  to  the  obligations  of  Shakspeare  to  Burbage.  It  is  con- 


Ixii  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

and  Hamlet  was  produced  about  1G93.  Lord  Southampton  a  little 
overshot  the  mark  when  he  said,  in  1008,  that  the  Blackfriars  play 
house  had  been  built  fifty  years:  certain  "  rooms"  in  the  precinct 
were  first  converted  into  a  theatre  in  1576,  so  that  it  had  not  been 
built  more  than  two-and-thirty  years. 

With  respect  to  Shakspeare,  the  preceding  letter  presents  sev 
eral  points  worthy  of  note,  which  cannot  fail  to  have  struck  you. 
One  is  that  upon  which  I  have  remarked  before,  viz.  that  Lord 
Southampton  calls  our  great  Poet  his  "  especial  friend ;  "  for  aay 
nobleman  might  well  be  vain  of  familiarity  with  such  a  man,  and 
ought  to  consider  it  a  privilege  to  be  able  to  lay  him  under  an 
obligation. 

Next  he  says  that  Shakspeare  had  been  "  'till  of  late  an  actor 
of  good  account  in  the  company,"  which  may  serve  to  settle  the 
question  what  was  his  rank  among  his  fellows  in  that  capacity  :  had 
Shakspeare  deserved  any  thing  like  the  praise  merited  by  Burbage, 
Lord  Southampton  would  have  chosen  other  terms  by  which  to 
characterize  his  performances;  and  we  may  reckon  it  a  fortunate 
circumstance  that  his  moderate  success  as  an  actor  perhaps  led 
him  to  apply  himself  with  more  assiduity  to  dramatic  composition. 
The  celebrity  of  Burbage  is  recorded,  but  the  fame  of  Shakspeare 
is  imperishable.  The  language  of  Lord  Southampton  certainly 
decides  that  our  great  Poet  had  recently  quitted  the  stage,  and  we 
may  conclude,  therefore,  contrary  to  the  received  opinion,  that  he 

tallied  in  a  MS.  volume  of  ballade,  and  productions  of  a  similar  nature,  collected,  as  I  ap 
prehend,  in  the  time  of  the  Protectorate. 

"  Dicke  Burbidge,  that  most  famous  man, 

That  Actor  without  peare, 
With  this  same  part  his  course  began, 

And  kept  it  many  a  yeare. 
Shakespeare  was  fortunate,  I  trow, 

That  such  an  actor  had  : 
If  we  had  but  his  equal]  now 

For  one  I  should  be  glad." 

This,  I  apprehend,  was  written  by  Thomas  Jordan,  himself  an  actor,  who,  no  doubt,  had 
often  seen  P>urbage.  If  the  line,  "  With  this  same  part  his  course  began,"  is  to  be  taken 
literally,  Otlir!!o  was  a  much  earlier  play  than  Malone  supposed  it  when  he  fixed  it  in  IfiO-1. 
I  wish  I  could  insert  the  whole,  of  the  ballad,  as  well  as  some  others  connected  with  Shak- 
speare's  productions— one  of  them  on  the  same  story  as  The  Tcmp^t,  and  perhaps  preced 
ing  it  in  point  of  date  ;  but  it  would  lead  me  too  far  from  my  present  purpose,  and  I  shall 
reserve  them. 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  Ixiii 

remained  a  performer  for  some  time  after  his  name  appeared  in  the 
list  at  the  end  of  Ben  Jonson's  Sejanus,  as  acted  in  1603. 

I  pass  over,  as  unimportant,  with  our  present  convictions,  Lord 
Southampton's  then  valuable  testimony  to  the  excellence  of  some 
of  Shakspeare's  productions,  and  to  the  satisfaction  Queen  Eliza 
beth  had  derived  from  the  representation  of  them ;  but  his  letter 
establishes  that  the  Burbages  were  originally  from  Warwickshire, 
if  not  from  Stratford  upon  Avon,  although,  if  Richard  Burbage 
were  born  in  Holywell  street,  Shoreditch,  as  has  been  conjectured, 
it  could  hardly  be  said  that  he  and  Shakspeare  were  "  almost  of 
one  town."  A  John  Burbage,  perhaps  the  father  of  James,  and 
the  grandfather  of  Richard,  was  bailiff  of  Stratford  upon  Avon  in 
1555.  No  registration  of  the  birth  of  Richard  Burbage  is  to  be 
found  in  the  parish  of  St.  Leonard,  Shoreditch ;  but  Malone  and 
Chalmers  (Shakspeare,  by  Boswell,  iii.,  183  and  467)  concluded, 
nevertheless,  that  he  was  born  in  Holywell  street,  about  the  year 
1570.  This  may  be  the  fact,  but  there  is  nothing  to  show  that 
James  Burbage  came  to  London  before  1570,  nor  that  his  son 
Richard  was  not  born  in  Warwickshire.  I  should  infer,  from  the 
expression  of  Lord  Southampton,  that  Richard  Burbage  was  born 
in  Warwickshire,  near  Stratford  upon  Avon :  if  not,  how  could 
they  both  be  "  of  one  county?"  This  circumstance,  supposing 
Thomas  Greene,  another  member  of  the  company,  and  an  author,* 
had  not  been  Shakspeare's  countryman,  or  had  never  existed, 
would  be  sufficient  to  explain  why  he  joined  the  Lord  Chamberlain's 
(afterwards  the  King's)  Servants  when  he  first  visited  London  in 
1586  or  1587. 

All  this  you  will  allow  to  be  matter  of  great  interest  to  every  lover 
of  Shakspeare.  When  first  I  obtained  permission  to  look  through 
the  Bridgewater  MSS.  in  detail,  I  conjectured  that  it  would  be 
nearly  impossible  to  turn  over  so  many  state-papers,  and  such  a 
bulk  of  correspondence,  private  and  official,  without  meeting  with 
something  illustrative  of  the  subject  to  which  I  have  devoted  so 
many  years ;  but  I  certainly  never  anticipated  being  so  fortunate 
as  to  obtain  particulars  so  new,  curious,  and  important,  regarding 


*  His  popularity  as  an  author  seems  to  have  been  nearly  on  a  par  with  his  celebrity  as 
an  actor. 


Ixiv  NEW  FACTS   REGARDING 

a  Poet  who,  above  all  others,  ancient  or  modern,  native  or  foreign, 
has  been  the  object  of  admiration.  When  I  took  up  the  copy  of 
Lord  Southampton's  letter,  and  glanced  over  it  hastily,  I  could 
scarcely  believe  iny  eyes,  to  see  such  names  as  Shakspeare  and 
Burbage  in  connection  in  a  manuscript  of  the  time.  There  was 
a  remarkable  coincidence  also  in  the  discovery,  for  it  happened 
on  the  anniversary  of  Shakspeare's  birth  and  death.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  my  joy  and  surprise,  and  I  can  only  liken  it  to 
the  unexpected  gratification  I  experienced  twro  or  three  years  ago, 
when  I  turned  out,  from  some  ancient  depositories  of  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire,  the  original  designs  of  Inigo  Jones,  not  only  for  the 
scenery,  but  for  the  dresses  arid  characters  of  the  different  masks 
by  Ben  Jonson,  Campion,  Townshend,  &c.,  presented  at  court  in 
the  reigns  of  our  first  James  and  Charles.  The  sketches  were 
sometimes  accompanied  by  explanations  in  the  hand-writing  of  the 
great  artist,  a  few  of  which  incidentally  illustrate  Shakspeare,  who, 
however,  was  never  employed  for  any  of  these  royal  entertainments: 
annexed  to  one  of  the  drawings  was  the  following  written  descrip 
tion,  from  whence  we  learn  how  the  actor  of  the  part  of  Falstaff 
was  usually  habited  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare. 

'•'  Like  a  Sr.  Jon  Falsstaff:  in  a  roabe  of  russet,  quite  low,  with  a  great 
1  '.-Hey.  like  a  swolen  man.  long  moustacheos,  the  sheows  [shoes]  shorte,  and 
c-ut  of  them  great  toes  like  naked  fecte  :  buskins  to  sheaw  a  great  swolen  leg. 
A  oupp  coming  fourth  like  a  beake — a  great  head  and  balde,  and  a  little  cap 
<xJa  Vcnctiane,  greay — a  rodd  and  a  scroule  of  parchment." 

The  character  here  described  was  that  of  the  representative  of 
Good-fellowship,  and  it  wras  probably  riot  meant  that  it  should  bear 
more  than  a  general  resemblance  to  Falstaff:  we  may  conclude, 
besides  his  corpulency,  that  he  wore  russet,  moustaches,  buskins, 
and  that  his  laro-e  bald  head  was  sometimes  covered  with  a  small 

to 

grey  Venetian   cap.     In  the  plate  before  Kirkman's  Drolls,  1672, 
he  is  represented  with  a  large  cup  in  his  hand. 

But  I  am  not  yet  come  to  an  end  of  my  recent  acquisitions  re 
specting  Shakspeare,  from  the  unexplored  archives  at  Bridgewater 
House.  In  an  original  entry  book  of  patents,  and  warrants  for 
patents,  kept  by  William  Tuthill,  "  the  riding  clerk,"  containing 
lists  of  all  that  had  passed  ths  great  seal  while  it  was  in  the  hands 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  Ixv 

of  Lord  Ellesmere  in  1609, 1  read  the  following  item,  which,  taken 
by  itself,  does  not  appear  of  much  importance  : — 

"  A  Warrant  for  Robert  Daborne  and  others,  the  Queene's  Servants, to  bring 
up  and  practise  Children  in  Plaies  by  the  name  of  the  Children  of  the  Queen's 
Revells,  for  the  pleasure  of  her  Majestie,  4°-  Janij  Anno  Septirno  Jacobi." 

I  remembered  that  Philip  Rosseter,  the  lutanist,  had  obtained 
a  patent  of  the  very  same  date,  and  for  the  very  same  purpose 
(vide  "  History  of  Dramatic  Poetry,"  i ,  372),  and  it  struck  me  as  ex 
traordinary  that  there  should  be  two  concurrent  grants.  I  knew  also, 
whatever  might  be  Daborne's  circumstances  in  1609,  that  he  was  in 
great  want  in  1613  or  1614,  when  he  was  imploring  Henslowe  not 
to  forsake  him  "  in  his  extremity  "  (Mai  :  Shakspeare,  by  Boswell, 
iii.,  336),  so  that  he  could  not  then  have  been  in  possession  of  funds 
to  enable  him  to  enter  into  such  a  speculation.  I  subsequently 
found,  however,  that  he  had,  or  was  to  have  had,  partners  in  the 
undertaking,  one  of  them  being  William  Shakspeare,  another  Na 
thaniel  Field,  the  celebrated  actor  and  dramatist,  and  a  third  Edward 
Kirkham,  whose  name  had  been  in  a  previous  warrant  for  the  instruc 
tion  of  the  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels,  a  copy  of  which  is 
inserted  in  the  "History  of  Dramatic  Poetry,"  i.,  353. 

It  has  hitherto  been  thought,  by  every  body  acquainted  with  the 
subject,  that  Shakspeare  confined  his  efforts,  both  as  author  and 
actor,  to  the  two  theatres  occupied  by  the  King's  Servants,  the 
Blackfriars  and  the  Globe.  I  still  believe  that  such  was  the  fact, 
for  reasons  I  shall  assign  presently,  notwithstanding  the  evidence 
to  the  contrary,  afforded  by  the  following  document,  which  came 
earliest  to  my  hands.  It  purports  to  be  a  draft  either  for  a  patent 
or  a  privy  seal,  and  runs  thus  : — 

"  Right  trusty  and  welbeloved  &c.  James  &c.  To  all  Mayors,  Shcrrifis, 
Justices  of  the  peace  &c.  Whereas  the  Queene  our  dearest  wife  hath  for  her 
pleasure  and  recreation  appointed  her  Scrvaunts  Robert  Daiborne  Arc.  to  pro 
vide  and  bring  upp  a  convenient  nomber  of  Children  who  shall  be  called  the 
children  of  her  Maiesties  Revells,  knowe  ye  that  we  haue  appointed  and 
authorized  and  by  these  presents  doe  appoint  and  authorize  the  said  Robert 
Daiborne,  William  Shakespeare,  Nathaniel  Field  and  Edward  Kirkham  from 
time  to  time  to  provide  and  bring  upp  a  convenient  nomber  of  Children,  and 
them  to  instruct  and  exercise  in  the  quality  of  playing  Tragedies,  Comedies 
&c.  by  the  name  of  the  Children  of  the  Revells  to  the  Queene,  within  the 
VOL.  I.  I 


Ixvi  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

Black  fryers  in  cur  Citie  of  London  or  els  where  within  our  realme  of  Eng 
land.  Wherefore  we  will  and  commaund  you  and  eyerie  of  you  to  pennitt 
her  said  Servaunts  to  keepe  a  convenient  number  of  Children  by  the  name  of 
the  Children  of  the  revells  to  the  Queene,  and  them  to  exercise  in  the  qualitie 
of  playing  according  to  her  royall  pleasure.  Provided  alwaies  that  no  playes 
&c  shall  be  by  them  presented,  but  such  playes  &c  as  have  received  the  appro 
bation  and  allowance  of  our  Maister  of  the  Revells  for  the  tyme  being.  And 
these  our  Ires,  shall  be  your  sufficient  warrant  in  this  behalfe.  In  witnesse 
whereof  &c.  4°  die  Janij  1G09." 

After  reading  this  document,  several  suggestions  instantly  present 
themselves.  First,  that  the  entry  in  the  official  book  of  Lord  Elles- 
mere,  kept  by  William  Tuthill,  only  mentions  the  name  of  Daborne, 
omitting  Shakspeare,  Field,  and  Kirkham ;  but  this  might  possibly 
be  accounted  for  by  the  circumstance  that,  in  the  first  part  of  the 
draft,  Daborne  only  is  spoken  of,  his  associates  being  named  after 
wards  :  this  of  itself  seems  a  singular  irregularity,  for  the  usual 
course  would  be  first  to  enumerate  all  the  parties,  and  then,  for  the 
sake  of  brevity,  inserting  the  first,  to  imply  the  rest  by  the  "  &c." 
However,  this  would  be  a  trifle,  if  it  did  not  appear,  on  the  face  of 
the  draft,  that  it  was  never  carried  into  effect,  as  far  as  regards 
Shakspeare,  though  it  might  pass  the  seal  in  favor  of  the  rest,  as  it 
certainly  did  in  favor  of  "  Daborne  and  others,"  who  are  mentioned 
in  the  clerk's  entry.  That  entry  was  not  made  until  the  official 
instrument  was  prepared  and  ready  for  delivery ;  and  at  the  end  of 
the  list  of  a  certain  number  of  them,  the  name  of  the  person  receiving 
them  and  carrying  them  from  the  office  is  constantly  subscribed. 
Should  we  ever  recover  this  document,  of  course  we  should  see 
who  were  Daborne's  partners,  designated  in  the  entry  by  the  words 
"  and  others  ;  "  but  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  Shakspeare  was 
not  one  of  them.  At  the  bottom  of  the  draft,  the  word  "  stayed  " 
has  been  written,  which  proves  that  there  was  at  least  some  hesita 
tion  in  passing  the  warrant. 

Then  it  may  be  asked,  how  it  happens  that  the  name  of  Shak 
speare  is  found  in  the  draft.  This  answer  may  be  given,  and 
perhaps  it  is  the  true  one  : — that  the  destruction  of  the  Blackfriars 
theatre  was,  about  this  date,  or  a  very  little  earlier,  contemplated, 
and  that  Shakspeare  projected  the  transference  of  his  interest,  or 
part  of  it,  to  a  different  dramatic  concern ;  because,  although  the 
Blackfriars  is  specifically  mentioned,  the  words  "  or  elsewhere 


THE    LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE. 

within  our  realm  of  England"  .arc  added,  so  that  the  Children  of 
the  Queen's  Revels  might  in  fact  perform  in  any  English  theatre.* 
When,  however,  it  turned  out  that  the  corporation  of  London  could 
not  succeed  in  their  design  of  expelling  the  King's  Servants  from 
the  privileged  precinct  of  the  Blackfriars,  Shakspeare  might  resolve, 
as  long  as  he  remained  in  London,  to  continue  his  old  connection,  as 
we  know  that  he  did,  to  the  last.  This  is  the  most  plausible  conjec 
ture  I  can  form,  and  it  is  somewhat  supported  by  the  circumstance 
that,  in  the  privy  seal  to  Rosseter,  it  was  expressly  stipulated  that 
the  children  were  to  perform  at  the  Whitefriars  theatre,  which  had 
been  erected  about  the  same  time  as  the  Blackfriars  theatre. 

The  Whitefriars  theatre  was  likewise  in  a  liberty  out  of  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  lord  mayor.  We  have  no  information  at  all 
precise  when  it  was  built;  but  I  apprehend  that  it  arose  out  of  the 
persecution  of  the  players  by  the  corporation  in  1575.  In  1613, 
Sir  George  Buc,  master  of  the  revels,  received  a  fee  of  20/.  for  his 
permission  to  rebuild  it;  and  I  have  in  rny  possession  an  original 
survey  of  some  part  of  the  precinct,  made  in  March,  1616,  which 
contains  the  following  paragraph  regarding  the  theatre  in  the 
Whitefriars  : — 

"  The  Theater  is  situate  near  vnto  the  Bishopps  House,  and  was  in  former 
times  a  hall  or  refectorie  belonging  to  the  dissolved  Monastery.  It  hath  beene 
vsed  as  a  place  for  the  presentation  of  playes  and  enterludes  for  more  then  30 
yeares.  last  by  the  Children  of  her  Majestic.  It  hath  little  or  no  furniture  for  a 
playhouse,  saving  an  old  tottered  curten,  some  decayed  benches,  and  a  few 
worne  out  properties  and  peeces  of  Arras  for  hangings  to  the  stage  and  tire 
house.  The  raine  hath  made  its  way  in  and  if  it  bee  not  repaired,  it  must 
soone  be  plucked  downe,  or  it  will  fall." 

This  document  was  not  in  my  hands  when  I  printed  rny  book, 
or  I  should,  of  course,  have  inserted  it.  One  of  the  last  plays  per- 

*  Neither  were  these  theatrical  "children"  necessarily  always  young.  In  the  State 
Paper  Office  is  a  letter  from  Ignatius  Jurdain,  mayor  of  Exeter  (endorsed  "  June,  1G18  >'), 
to  Sir  Thomas  Lake,  "  Principal  Secretary  to  his  Majesty,"  complaining  that  John  Daniel 
(of  whom  I  shall  have  something  more  to  say  by  and  by)  had  come  to  that  city,  and,  showing 
his  patent,  had  claimed  a  right  to  perform  there.  The  mayor  refused  his  permission,  on  the 
ground  that  the  patent  was  only  for  "  Children  of  the  Revels,"  whereas,  in  the  whole  com 
pany,  there  were  only  five  youths,  and  the  rest  men  of  thirty,  forty,  and  fifty  years  old.  He 
had,  however,  presented  them  with  four  angels,  with  whir])  they  seemed  content ;  but,  as  he 
afterwards  heard  that  they  threatened  to  write  to  the  privy  council,  complaining  of  obstruc 
tion,  lie  had  determined  to  be  beforehand  with  them.  He  annexes  to  his  letter  a  copy  of 
the  patent  of  the  17th  of  July,  13  Jac.  I. 


Ixviii  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

formed  \n  tlie  Whitefriars  theatre  was,  doubtless,  Nathaniel  Field's 
~\\roman  is  a  Weathercock,  printed  in  1612,  but  written  before  1611. 
Field  was  one  of  the  partners  of  Daborne  mentioned  in  the  draft 
of  the  warrant  found  at  Bridgewater  House.  I  explain  the  appa 
rently  concurrent  grants  to  Daborne  and  Rosseter,  dated  4th  of 
January,  1609,  by  supposing  that  they  were  in  fact  one  and  the 
same,  and  that,  Shakspeare  having  seceded,  because  the  King's 
Servants  were  not  disturbed,  Daborne  took  Rosseter  in  his  place. 
Daborne  was  the  author  of  several  plays,  two  of  which  only  were 
printed ;  and  in  the  preface  to  one  of  them — A  Christian  turn'd 
Turk,  1612 — he  says,  "my  own  descent  is  not  obscure,  but  gene 
rous  ;  "  and  it  is  likely  that  he  obtained  the  grant  in  question  by 
some  influence  at  court:  his  name,  as  manager  or  joint  manager 
of  a  company,  is  only  found  among  Lord  Ellesmere's  papers. 

Bi't  for  the  entry  in  the  book  by  William  Tuthill,  I  should  have 
concluded,  from  the  word  "  stayed  "  at  the  bottom  of  the  draft,  and 
from  other  circumstances,  that  the  intention  to  grant  a  patent  or 
privy  seal  for  the  purpose  stated,  had  never  been  carried  into  exe 
cution.  At  the  foot  of  the  same  paper  is  the  subsequent  enumeration 
of  theatres  at  that  time  open  in  the  metropolis  and  its  neighborhood. 

"  Bl.  Fr.  and  Globe  -\ 

Wh  Fr.  and  Parish  Garden  f 

>  All  in  or  neare  London. 
Curten  and  Fortune  ( 

Hope  and  Swanne  j 

This  list  seems  to  show  that  the  number  of  existing  playhouses 
was  taken  into  consideration,  perhaps  by  the  lord  chancellor,  and 
that  he  was  deterred  from  at  once  complying  with  the  wishes  of 
Daborne  and  his  associates,  by  the  consideration  that  no  more 
places  of  dramatic  entertainment  were  required  "  in  and  near 
London."  This  remark  may  be  partly  answered,  by  recollecting 
that  it  was  not  proposed  to  open  any  new  theatre,  but  merely  to 
give  an  opportunity  to  the  Children  of  the  Queen's  Revels  to  perform 
at  the  Blackfriars,  in  the  same  way  as  wre  know  that  the  Children 
of  the  King's  Revels  did  perform  there  in  the  beginning  of  the  reign 
of  James  I.  The  juxtaposition  of  the  names  of  thn  right  different 
theatres,  as  above,  leads  to  the  conclusion  that  the  same  set  of 
comedians  occupied  two;  and  they  could,  therefore,  hardly  be  said 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  IxiX 

to  be  open  all  at  the  same  time.  We  are  sure  that  such  was  the 
case  with  the  King's  Servants  at  the  Blackfriars  and  at  the  Globe; 
and  we  may,  with  sufficient  safety,  presume  the  same  of  the  rest. 
The  most  doubtful  in  this  respect  are  the  two  last — the  Hope  and 
the  Swan — which  were  both  in  South wark,  very  near  each  other, 
and  probably  both  in  the  hands  of  Philip  Henslowe,  the  old  pawn- 
broking  manager,  to  whose  diary  we  owe  so  many  particulars 
regarding  old  plays,  players,  and  playhouses. 

Another  observation  upon  the  draft  of  the  warrant  to  Daborne, 
Shakspeare,  Field,  and  Kirkham,  can  hardly  have  failed  to  impress 
you  ;  I  allude  to  the  reservation  of  the  authority  of  "  our  Master  of 
the  Revels  for  the  time  being,"  in  inspecting  and  approving  the 
plays  to  be  represented.  "  Our  Master  of  the  Revels  "  would,  of 
course,  be  the  king's  officer,  Edmund  Tylney  ;  but  it  seems  strange 
that  his  allowance  for  the  performances  of  the  Children  of  the  Queen's 
Revels  should  have  been  required,  when  it  has  been  clearly  shown 
("  History  of  Dramatic  Poetry,"  i.,  353)  that,  in  1603,  Samuel 
Daniel,  the  poet,  who  perhaps  ranks  next  to  Shakspeare,  Spenser, 
and  Jonson,  had  been  expressly  appointed  to  supervise  the  produc 
tions  intended  to  be  brought  out  by  the  Children  of  the  Queen's 
Revels,  under  King  James's  patent  to  Kirkham,  Hawkins,  Kendall, 
and  Payne,  in  1603.  This  was  certainly  an  infringement  upon  the 
long-established  authority  of  the  king's  master  of  the  revels ;  and 
possibly,  in  1609,  it  was  intended  to  restore  his  power. 

At  Bridgewater  House  are  preserved  two  original  letters  from 
Samuel  Daniel  to  Lord  Ellesmere,  both  of  them  very  interesting 

«  &  * 

but  one  of  them  especially  so,  inasmuch  as  one  paragraph  in  it  refers 
expressly  to  Shakspeare,  though  not  by  name.  They  arc  both 
without  dates,  but  circumstances  enable  us,  I  think,  to  fix  them 
pretty  exactly.  Lord  Ellesmere  seems  to  have  been  Daniel's  patron, 
and,  if  I  mistake  not,  was  the  means  of  procuring  for  him  the  ap 
pointment  of  master  of  the  queen's  revels  and  inspector  of  the 
plays  to  be  represented  by  the  juvenile  performers.  It  seeais  that 
Daniel  had  competitors  for  this  office,  one  of  whom  was  certainly 
Michael  Drayton,  the  poet;  and  the  other,  in  all  probability,  from 
the  particular  expressions  used,  Shakspeare.  The  whole  of  the 
letter  well  deserves  quotation,  and  I  therefore  insert  it.  It  is 
addressed 


Ixx  NEW   FACTS   REGARDING 

"  To  the  right  honorable  Sr-  Thomas  Egerton,  knight,  Lord  Keeper  of  the 
Great  Scale  of  England. 

••'I  will  not  indeavour,  Right  honorable,  to  tlianke  you  in  wordes  for  this 
new  great  and  unlookt  for  favor  shown  vnto  me.  whereby  I  am  bound  to  you 
for  ever,  and  hope  one  day  with  true  harte  and  simple  skill  to  prove  that  I  a  me 
not  vnmindfull.  Most  earnestly  doe  I  wish  I  could  praise  as  your  Honor  has 
knowne  to  deserue,  for  then  should  I.  like  my  maister  Spenser,  whose  memo- 
rie  your  Honor  clierisheth,  leave  behinde  me  some  worthie  worke,  to  be  treas 
ured  by  posterity.  What  my  pore  Muse  could  performe  in  haste  is  here  set 
downe,  and  though  it  be  farre  below  what  other  poets  and  better  pens  have 
written,  it  cometh  from  a  gratefull  harte  and  therefore  may  be  accepted.  I 
shall  now  be  able  to  live  free  from  those  cares  and  troubles  that  hethcrto  have 
bene  my  continuall  and  wearisome  companions.  But  a  little  time  is  past  since 
I  was  called  vpon  to  thanke  your  Honor  for  my  brothers  advancement,  and 
now  I  thanke  you  for  myne  owne ;  which  double  kindnes  will  alwaies  receive 
double  gratefulnes  at  both  our  handes.  I  cannot  but  knowe  that  I  am  lesse 
deserving  then  some  that  sued  by  other  of  the  nobility  vnto  her  Matie  for  this 
roome  :  if  M.  Draiton,  my  good  friend,  had  bene  chosen,  I  should  not  have 
murmured,  for  sure  I  ame  he  wold  have  filled  it  most  cxcellentlie  :  but  it 
seemeth  to  myne  humble  Judgement  that  one  who  is  the  authour  of  playes  now 
daylie  presented  on  the  public  stages  of  London,  and  the  possessor  of  no  small 
gainc-s,  and  moreover  him  selfe  an  Actor  in  the  Kings  Companie  of  Comedians, 
could  not  with  reason  pretend  to  be  Mr-  of  the  Quecnes  MatiPS  Rcvells.  for  as 
much  as  he  wold  sometimes  be  asked  to  approve  and  allow  of  his  owne 
writings.  Therefore,  he,  and  more  of  like  quality,  cannot  justlie  be  disappointed 
because  through  your  Honors  gracious  interposition  the  chance  was  haply 
myne.  1  owe  this  and  all  else  to  your  honor,  and  if  ever  I  have  time  and 
abilitie  to  finish  anie  noble  vndertaking,  as  God  graunt  one  daye  I  shall,  the 
worke  will  rather  be  your  Honors  then  myne.  God  maketh  a  poet,  but  his 
creation  would  he  in  vaine  if  patrons  did  not  make  him  to  live.  Your  Honor 
hath  ever  shewn;1  your  self  the  friend  of  desert,  and  pity  it  were  if  this  «hold 
be  the  first  exception  to  the  rule.  It  shall  not  be,  while  my  pore  wilt  and 
strength  doe  remaine  to  me.  though  the  verses  which  1  now  send  be  indeedo 
no  proofe  of  myne  abilitie.  I  onely  intreat  your  Honor  to  accept  the  same, 
the  rather  as  an  earnest  of  my  ge:>d  will  then  as  an  example  of  my  good  deede. 
In  all  things  I  am  your  Honors 

"  Moste  bounden  in  dutie  and  observaunce. 

"  SAMUKT.  DANYKL." 


The  passage  in  this  letter  that  I  conceive  applies  to  Shakspeare, 
is  that  where,  after  mentioning  Drayton  as  a  candidate  for  the 
place  of  master  of  the  queen's  revels,  Daniel  speaks  of  another 
person  \vho  had  endeavored  to  procure  it,  vho  was  the  author  of 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEARE.  Ixxi 

plays  in  a  course  of  daily  performance,  who  had  realized  wealth  by 
the  profession,  and  who  was  himself  an  actor  in  the  King's  Company. 
This  description  could  apply  to  no  other  member  of  that  associa 
tion  but  Shakspeare.  Ben  Jonson,  whose  Scjanus  was  acted  by 
the  King's  Servants  in  1603,*  had  quitted  the  stage  before  that  date, 
and  it  is  besides  known  that  he  was  then  far  from  rich  :  in  February, 
1602-3.  he  was  "  living  upon  one  Towrishend,"  according  to  a 
piece  of  evidence  adduced  in  the  "  History  of  Dramatic  Poetry," 
i.,  334.  What  "other  of  the  nobility"  had  supported  Shakspeare's 
claim  to  the  new  office  (for  we  never  before  nor  afterwards  hear 
of  the  master  of  the  queen's  revels)  does  not  appear,  but  most 
likely  it  was  the  Earl  of  Southampton.  Daniel  was  appointed  on 
the  30th  of  January,  1603,  so  that  the  preceding  letter  must  have 
been  written  very  shortly  afterwards. 

With  the  letter,  Daniel  sent  a  poem  to  Lord  Ellesmere ;  and  in 
1603  was  printed  an  epistle  "To  Sir  Thomas  Egerton,  knight," 
which  followed  "  A  Panegyric  congratulatory  "  to  James  I.  on  his 
ascending  the  throne.  The  first  may  have  been  the  production 
alluded  to,  which  the  author  says  was  composed  "  in  haste." 

You  will  observe  that  Daniel  adverts  to  his  "  brother's  advance 
ment"  by  the  instrumentality  of  Lord  Ellesmere;  and  the  principal 

*  It  is  worth  adding  in  a  noto,  that,  among  other  MSS.  at  Bridgewater  House,  is  preserved 
an  original  copy  of  Pen  Jonson's  "  Expostulation  with  Inigo  Jones,"  in  the  hand  writing  of 
the  author,  and  corresponding  very  exactly  (some  words  only  excepted)  with  the  copy 
printed  by  Mr.  Giflbrd  [Ben  Jonson's  Works,  viii.,  116],  although  that  critic  contended  that 
only  "  some  part  "  of  it  proceeded  from  Jonson's  pen.  Mr.  Gifford  svas  naturally  anxious  to 
deny  its  authenticity,  because  lie  had  denied  that  Ben  Jonson  meant,  Inigo  Junes,  by  Lan 
tern  Lcathcrhead  in  BarthcLnur"*  Fair.  Hence,  in  fact,  "  Lantrrn  Lerry,"  or  Lantern 
Leathery,  became  the  nick-name  of  Jones,  and  Ben  Jonson  applies  it  to  him  in  this  very  Ex 
postulation,  coupling  it  with  a  mention  of  Adam  Overdo  in  BartJialomeio  Fair.  When  Mr. 
GiiFord  had  made  up  his  mind  upon  a  point,  no  evidence,  however  clear,  could  unconvince 
him.  Two  or  three  verbal  variations  may  be  pointed  out.  Ben  Jonson's  original  copy 

reads — 

"  You'd  be  an  Assinigo  by  your  ears  ? 

Why  much  good  do't  you  ;  be  what  beast  yon  will 
You'll  be,  as  Langley  said,  '  an  Inigo  still.'  " 
The  printed  copy  IMS  part  for  len+t.     Again, 

"  No  velvet  .iJimth  you  wear  will  alter  kind, 

A  wooden  dagger  is  a  dagger  of  wood,"  &c. 
The  printed  copy  has  suit  for  sheath.     Farther  on, 

'  The  eloquence  of  masques  !  what  need  of  prose, 
Or  verse  or  sense  t'  express  immortal  you." 
The  printed  copy  reads  prose  for  sense.     The  rest  are  less  important  differences. 


Ixxii  NEW  FACTS  REGARDING 

object  of  the  second  letter  of  the  same  poet,  pieserved  at  Bridge- 
water  House,  is  to  thank  the  lord  keeper  for  this  "  preferment." 
What  was  the  nature  of  it  we  are  not  informed,  but  it  was  probably 
procuring  for  him  a  patent  for  a  company  of  theatrical  children  : 
there  is  no  doubt  that  this  letter  was  shortly  anterior  in  point  of 
date  to  that  above  quoted.  Daniel  also  mentions  his  incomplete 
poem,  "  The  Civil  Wars  between  the  Houses  of  York  and  Lancas 
ter,"  which  he  intended  to  bring  down  to  the  reign  of  Henry  VII., 
but  never  carried  farther  than  the  marriage  of  Edward  IV.  The 
letter  contains  nothing  regarding  Shakspeare ;  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  is  so  interesting,  on  account  of  the  distinguished  writer, 
the  subject,  and  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  that  I  shall 
not  hesitate  to  insert  a  copy  of  it.  Communications  of  the  kind, 
by  poets  of  eminence  of  that  day,  are  the  rarest,  and  to  me  the 
most  precious,  relics. 

11  Right  honorable.  Amongst  all  the  great  workes  of  your  worthynes  it  will 
not  be  the  least  that  you  have  donne  for  me  in  the  preferment  of  my  brother, 
with  whome  yet  now  sometimes  I  may  eat  whilst  I  write,  and  so  go  on  with 
the  worke  I  have  in  hand,  which  God  knowes  had  long  since  bene  ended,  and 
your  Honor  had  had  that  which  in  my  harte  I  have  prepared  for  you,  could  I 
have  but  sustayned  my  self  and  made  truce  within,  and  peace  with  the  world. 
But  such  hath  bene  my  misery,  that  whilst  I  should  have  written  the  actions 
of  men,  I  have  bene  constrayned  to  live  with  children  ;  and  contrary  to  myne 
owne  spirit  put  out  of  that  scene  which  nature  had  made  my  parte.  For  could 
I  but  live  to  bring  this  labor  of  mine  to  the  Union  of  Henry  VII.,  I  should  have 
the  end  of  ail  my  ambition  in  this  life,  and  the  utmost  of  my  desyres :  for 
therein,  if  wordes  can  worke  any  thing  vppon  the  affections  of  men,  I  will 
labor  to  give  the  best  hand  I  can  to  the  pcrpetuall  closing  up  of  those  woundes, 
and  the  ever  keeping  them  so,  that  our  land  may  lothe  to  lookc  over  lhr»se 
blessed  boundcs  (which  the  providence  of  God  hath  set  vs)  vnto  the  horror 
and  confusion  of  farther  and  former  claymes.  And  though  I  know  the  great- 
nes  of  the  worke  requires  a  greater  spirit  then  myne,  yet  we  see  that  in  theas 
frames  of  motions,  little  wheeles  move  the  greater,  and  so  by  degrees  turne 
about  the  whole,  and  God  knowes  what  so  pore  a  Muse  as  myne  may  woike 
vppon  the  aflections  of  men.  But  ho\\\soevcr  I  shall  herein  show  my  zenle  to 
my  country  and  to  do  that  which  my  soule  tolls  me  is  fit.  And  to  this  end  do 
I  now  purpose  to  retyre  me  to  my  pore  home,  arid  not  againe  to  see  you  till  I 
have  payd  your  Honor  my  vowcs ;  and  will  om-ly  pray  that  England  which  so 
much  needes  you  may  long  injoy  the  treasure  of  your  councell.  and  that  it  be  not 
driven  to  complayne  with  that  good  Roman  videiuus  quibus  txtinctis  jurlapcrltis^ 
yuam  in  paitcis  iiunc  spcs,  quam  in  paMcioribtts  facultas,  qiuitn  in  muftis  uuducia. 


THE   LIFE   OF   SHAKSPEAIIE.  Ixxiii 

And  for  this  comfort  I  have  received  from  your  goodnes  I  must  and  ever  will 
rernayne  your  Plonors  in  all  I  ame 

"SAMUEL  DANYEL." 

Having,  perhaps,  gone  a  little  out  of  rny  way  in  the  insertion  of 
the  letters  of  the  master  of  the  queen's  revels,  an  office  Shakspeare 
endeavored  to  procure  in  1603,  I  must  now  revert  briefly  to  the 
draft  of  the  warrant  of  1609,  according  to  which,  had  it  been  car 
ried  into  effect,  Shakspeare  would  have  been  at  the  head  of  a 
company  of  juvenile  performers.  When  that  draft  was  sent  to 
Lord  Ellesmere,  some  inquiry  seems  to  have  been  made  as  to  the 
nature  and  names  of  the  "  Tragedies,  Comedies,  &,c.,"  which  the 
children  were  to  act ;  for  in  the  margin  of  the  paper  are  written  the 
titles  of  thirteen  plays,  five  of  which  are  perhaps  known,  and  eight 
certainly  unknown.  They  are  these — 

Proud  Povertie  Grisell 

Widows  Mite  Engl.  tragedie 

Antonio  False  Friends 

Kinsmen  Hate  and  love 

Triumph  of  Truth  Taming  of  S. 

Touchstone  K.  Edw.  2. 
Mirror  of  Life. 

Proud  Poverty  is  no  where  mentioned  ;  and  the  same  may  be 
said  of  Widow's  Mite,  Triumph  of  Truth,  Touchstone,  Mirror  of 
Life,  English  Tragedy,  False  Friends,  «nd  Hate  and  Love: 
Anthony  Munday,  indeed,  wrote  a  play  called  The  Widow's  Charm; 
Thomas  Middleton,  a  pageant  called  The,  Triumphs  of  Truth;  and 
Kirton,  a  tract  called  The  Mirror  of  Man's  Life;  but  they  could 
have  had  no  other  connection  with  the  names  of  plays  in  the  margin 
of  the  draft  than  some  similarity  of  title.  Antonio  may  have  been 
Marston's  Antonio  and  Mellida,  printed  in  1602,  or  the  old  play 
of  Antonio  and  Vallia,  introduced  into  Henslowe's  Diary.  Kins~ 
men  was  possibly  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  attributed  to  Shakspeare 
r.nd  Fletcher,  which  was  not  printed  until  1034.  Grhrl.1  was 
doubtless  some  dramatic  version  of  Boccaccio's  Story  of  Grisclda, 
and  perhaps  the  comedy  of  Patient  Grisell,  printed  anonymously 
in  1603,  but,  from  Henslowe's  Diary,  ascertained  to  have  been 
written  by  Haughton,  Chettle,  and  Dekker.  Taming  of  S.  in 
stantly  brings  to  mind  Shakspeare's  Taming  of  the  Shrew ;  or  it 

VOL.    I.  K 


NEW  FACTS,   &c. 

nii^ht  be  the  older  comedy,  The  Taming  of  a  Shrew t  to  which 
Shnkspcare  was  indebted,  and  which  was  printed  in  1594.  K. 
E;<ir.  2.  was  most  likely  Marlow's  tragedy  of  Edward  the  Second. 

Of  course  it  is  impossible  even  to  guess  at  the  authors  of  the 
other  dramatic  productions,  the  titles  of  which  are  here  inserted  for 
the  first  time  :  perhaps  more  than  one  proceeded  from  the  pen  of 
Shakspeare,  contributed  by  him  in  the  outset  of  the  new  company, 
with  whom  he  once  designed  to  be  connected. 

I  shall  offer  no  other  apology  for  the  length  of  this  letter,  than  by 
saying  that,  if  I  had  consulted  my  own  inclination,  I  should  have 
made  it  at  least  four  times  as  long,  by  adding  a  great  deal  of  other 
ne\v  matter  relating  to  Shakspeare,  his  works,  and  his  fellow 
dramatists  and  actors.  I  wish  a  few  other  people  had  half  your 
knowledge  of,  and  half  your  liking  for,  such  details;  but  perhaps, 
after  all,  you  may  only  have  a  temporary  escape. 

I  must  not  conclude  without  expressing  my  personal  thankfulness, 
and  the  obligations  of  literature,  not  in  this  instance  merely,  to 
Lord  Francis  Egerton  :  he  has  laid  open  the  manuscript  stores  of 
his  noble  family  with  a  liberality  worthy  of  his  rank  and  race ; 
and,  if  the  example  were  followed  by  others  possessed  of  similar 
relics,  literary  and  historical  information  of  great  novelty  and  of 
high  value  might  in  many  cases  be  obtained. 

I  remain, 

My  dear  Amyot. 

Yours  most  sincerely, 

J.  PAYNE   COLLIER. 

LONDON,  Mmj  20,  1835. 


Ixxv 


SHAKSPEARE'S    WILL. 

FROM  THE  ORIGINAL  IN  THE  OFFICE  OF  THE  PREROGATIVE  COURT 
OF  CANTERBURY. 


Viccsimo  quinto  die  Martii,  Anno  Regni  Domini  nostri  Jacobi 
nunc  Regis  Anglia,  Sfc.  decimo  quarto,  et  Scotia  quadragesimo 
nono.  Anno  Domini  1616. 

IN  the  name  of  God,  Amen.  I,  William  Shakspeare,  of  Stratford 
upon  Avon,  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  gent.,  in  perfect  health  and 
memory,  (God  be  praised  !)  do  make  and  ordain  this  my  last  will 
and  testament  in  manner  and  form  following ;  that  is  to  say  : — 

First,  I  commend  my  soul  into  the  hands  of  God  my  Creator, 
hoping,  and  assuredly  believing,  through  the  only  merits  of  Jesus 
Christ  my  Savior,  to  be  made  partaker  of  life  everlasting ;  and  my 
body  to  the  earth  whereof  it  is  made. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  daughter  Judith,  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  pounds  of  lawful  English  money,  to  be  paid  unto  her 
in  manner  and  form  following ;  that  is  to  say,  one  hundred  pounds 
in  discharge  of  her  marriage  portion  within  one  year  after  my  de 
cease,  with  consideration  after  the  rate  of  two  shillings  in  the  pound 
for  so  long  time  as  the  same  shall  be  unpaid  unto  her  after  my 
decease  ;  and  the  fifty  pounds  residue  thereof,  upon  her  surrender 
ing  of,  or  giving  of  such  sufficient  security  as  the  overseers  of  this 
my  will  shall  like  of,  to  surrender  or  grant,  all  her  estate  and  right 
that  shall  descend  or  come  unto  her  after  my  decease,  or  that  she 
now  hath,  of,  in,  or  to,  one  copyhold  tenement,  with  the  appurte 
nances,  lying  and  being  in  Stratford  upon  Avon  aforesaid,  in  the 
said  county  of  Warwick,  being  parcel  or  holden  of  the  manor  of 
B.owington,  unto  my  daughter  Susanna  Hall,  and  her  heirs  forever. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  said  daughter  Judith  one  hun- 


Ixxvi  SHAKSPEARE'S   WILL. 

dred  and  fifty  pounds  more,  if  she,  or  any  issue  of  her  body,  be  liv 
ing  at  the  end  of  three  years  next  ensuing  the  day  of  the  date  of 
this  my  will,  during  which  time  my  executors  to  pay  her  considera 
tion  from  my  decease  according  to  the  rate  aforesaid  :  and  if  she 
die  within  the  said  term  without  issue  of  her  body,  then  my  will  is, 
and  I  do  give  and  bequeath  one  hundred  pounds  thereof  to  my  niece 
Elizabeth  Hall,  and  the  fifty  pounds  to  be  set  forth  by  my  executors 
during  the  life  of  my  sister  Joan  Hart,  and  the  use  and  profit 
thereof  coming,  shall  be  paid  to  my  said  sister  Joan,  and  after  her 
decease  the  said  fifty  pounds  shall  remain  amongst  the  children  of 
my  said  sister,  equally  to  be  divided  amongst  them ;  but  if  my  said 
daughter  Judith  be  living  at  the  end  of  the  said  three  years,  or  any 
issue  of  her  body,  then  my  will  is,  and  so  I  devise  and  bequeath  the 
said  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  to  be  set  out  by  my  executors  and 
overseers  for  the  best  benefit  of  her  and  her  issue,  and  the  stock  not 
to  be  paid  unto  her  so  long  as  she  shall  be  married  and  covert  baron  ; 
but  my  will  is,  that  she  shall  have  the  consideration  yearly  paid  unto 
her  during  her  life,  and  after  her  decease  the  said  stock  and  con 
sideration  to  be  paid  to  her  children,  if  she  have  any,  and  if  not,  to 
her  executors  and  assigns,  she  living  the  said  term  after  my  de 
cease  :  provided  that  if  such  husband  as  she  shall  at  the  end  of  the 
said  three  years  be  married  unto,  or  at  any  [time]  after,  do  suffi 
ciently  assure  unto  her,  and  the  issue  of  her  body,  lands  answerable 
to  the  portion  by  this  my  will  given  unto  her,  and  to  be  adjudged 
so  by  my  executors  and  overseers,  then  my  will  is,  that  the  said 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds;  shall  be  paid  to  such  husband  as  shall 
make  such  assurance,  to  his  own  use. 

Itiru,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  my  said  sifter  Joan  t'.vcuty  poii.^"  , 
and  all  my  wearing  apparel,  to  be  paid  and  delivered  within  one 
year  after  my  decease  ;  and  I  do  will  and  devise  unto  her  the  house, 
with  the  appurtenances,  in  Stratford,  wherein  she  dwclleth,  for  her 
natural  life,  under  the  yearly  rent  of  twelve  pence. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  her  three  sons,  William  Hart, 

Hart,  and  Michael  Hart,  five  pounds  apiece,  to  be  paid  within 

one  year  after  my  decease. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  the  said  Elizabeth  Hall,  all  my 
plate  (except  my  broad  silver  arid  gilt  bowl),  that  I  now  have  at  the 
date  of  this  my  will. 


SHAKSPEARE'S   WILL.  Ixxvil 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  unto  the  poor  of  Stratford  aforesaidj 
ten  pounds  ;  to  Mr.  Thomas  Combe,  my  sword  ;  to  Thomas  Russel, 
esq.,  five  pounds  ;  and  to  Francis  Collins,  of  the  borough  of  War 
wick,  in  the  county  of  Warwick,  gent.,  thirteen  pounds  six  shillings 
and  eight  pence ;  to  be  paid  within  one  year  after  my  decease. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  to  Hamlet  [Hamnef]  Sadler  twenty-six 
shillings  eight  pence,  to  buy  him  a  ring;  to  William  Reynolds, 
gent.,  twenty-six  shillings  eight  pence,  to  buy  him  a  ring;  to  my 
godson  William  Walker,  twenty  shillings  in  gold  ;  to  Anthony  Nash, 
gent.,  twenty-six  shillings  eight  pence;  and  to  Mr.  John  Nash, 
twenty-six  shillings  eight  pence  ;  and  to  my  fellows,  John  Hemynge, 
Richard  Burbage,  and  Henry  Cundell,  twenty-six  shillings  eight 
pence  apiece,  to  buy  them  rings. 

Item,  I  give,  will,  bequeath,  and  devise,  unto  my  daughter  Susanna 
Hall,  for  better  enabling  of  her  to  perform  this  my  will,  and  towards 
the  performance  thereof,  all  that  capital  messuage  or  tenement, 
with  the  appurtenances,  in  Stratford  aforesaid,  called  The  New 
Place,  wherein  I  now  dwell,  and  two  messuages  or  tenements,  with 
the  appurtenances,  situate,  lying,  and  being  in  Henley  Street,  with 
in  the  borough  of  Stratford  aforesaid  ;  and  all  my  barns,  stables, 
orchards,  gardens,  lands,  tenements,  and  hereditaments  whatsoever, 
situate,  lying,  and  being,  or  to  be  had,  received,  perceived,  or 
taken,  within  the  towns,  hamlets,  villages,  fields,  and  grounds  of 
Stratford  upon  Avon,  Old  Stratford  Bishopton,  and  Welcombe,  or 
in  any  of  them,  in  the  said  county  of  Warwick;  and  also  all  that 
messuage  or  tenement,  with  the  appurtenances,  wherein  one  John 
Robinson  dwelleth,  situate,  lying,  and  being,  in  the  Blackfriars  in 
London,  near  the  Wardrobe ;  and  all  other  my  lands,  tenements, 
and  hereditaments  whatsoever:  to  have  and  to  hold  all  and  singular 
the  said  premises,  with  their  appurtenances,  unto  the  said  Susanna 
Hall,  for  and  during  the  term  of  her  natural  life;  and  after  her  de 
cease  to  the  first  son  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing,  and  to  the  heirs 
males  of  the  body  of  the  said  first  son  lawfully  issuing ;  and  for  de 
fault  of  such  issue,  to  the  second  son  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing, 
and  to  the  heirs  males  of  the  body  of  the  said  second  son  lawfully 
issuing;  and  for  default  of  such  heirs,  to  the  third  son  of  the  body 
of  the  said  Susanna  lawfully  issuing,  and  to  the  heirs  males  of  the 
body  of  the  said  third  son  lawfully  issuing;  and  for  default  of  such 
issue,  the  same  so  to  be  and  remain  to  the  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  and 


SHAKSPEARE'S   WILL. 

seventh  sons  of  her  body,  lawfully  issuing  one  after  another,  and  to 
the  heirs  males  of  the  bodies  of  the  said  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  and 
seventh  sons  lawfully  issuing,  in  such  manner  as  it  is  before  limited 
to  be  and  remain  to  the  first,  second,  and  third  sons  of  her  body, 
and  to  their  heirs  males ;  and  for  default  of  such  issue,  the  said 
premises  to  be  and  remain  to  my  said  niece  Hall,  and  the  heirs 
males  of  her  body  lawfully  issuing;  and  for  default  of  such  issue,  to 
my  daughter  Judith,  and  the  heirs  males  of  her  body  lawfully  issu 
ing  ;  and  for  default  of  such  issue,  to  the  right  heirs  of  me  the  said 
William  Shakspeare  forever 

lit  in,  I  give  unto  my  wife  my  second  best  bed,  with  the  furniture. 

Item,  I  give  and  bequeath  to  my  said  daughter  Judith  my  broad 
silver  gilt  bowl.  All  the  rest  of  my  goods,  chattels,  leases,  plate, 
jewels,  and  household  stuff  whatsoever,  after  my  debts  and  legacies 
paid,  and  my  funeral  expenses  discharged,  I  give,  devise,  and  be 
queath  to  my  son-in-law,  John  Hall,  gent.,  and  my  daughter  Susanna 
his  wife,  whom  I  ordain  and  make  executors  of  this  my  last  will 
and  testament.  And  I  do  entreat  and  appoint  the  said  Thomas 
Russell,  esq.,  and  Francis  Collins,  gent.,  to  be  overseers  hereof.  And 
do  revoke  all  former  wills,  and  publish  this  to  be  my  last  will  and 
testament.  In  witness  whereof  I  have  hereunto  put  my  hand,  the 
day  and  year  first  above  written. 

By  me  WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE. 

IVitnt'xs  to  the  publishing  hereof, 

FltA.    CoLLYNS, 

JULIUS    SHAW, 
JOHN    RomxsoiV, 
HAMXET    SADLER, 
ROBERT  WHATCOTT. 

Probatum  fait  testamentum  suprascriptum  apud  London,  curam 
Magistro  William  Byrde,  Lcgum  Doctore,  fyc.  vicesinio  sccnndo 
die.  meusis  Jitnii,  Anno  Domini  1616;  juramento  Johannis  Hall 
unitis  ex.  niiy  <$v.  dc  bcne,  fye.  jurat,  rescrvata  potentate,  fyc. 
Susanna  I  fall,  alt.  ex.  Sfc.  earn  cum,  vcnerit,  fyc.  petitur,  fyc. 


Ixxix 


THE 


PREFACE   OF   THE   PLAYERS. 

PREFIXED     TO     THE     FIRST     FOLIO     EDITION,    PUBLISHED     IN     1G23. 


To  the  great  Variety  of  Readers, 

FROM  the  most  able,  to  him  that  can  but  spell :  there 
you  are  number'd.  We  had  rather  you  were  weigh'd. 
Especially,  when  the  fate  of  all  Bookes  depends  upon  your 
capacities :  and  not  of  your  heads  alone,  but  of  your  purses. 
Well !  it  is  now  publique,  and  you  wil  stand  for  your  privi- 
ledges  wee  know  :  to  read,  and  censure.  Do  so,  but  buy 
it  first.  That  doth  best  commend  a  Booke,  the  Stationer 
saies.  Then,  how  odde  soever  your  braines  be,  or  your 
wisedomes,  make  your  licence  the  same,  and  spare  not. 
Judge  your  sixe-pen'orth,  your  shillings  worth,  your  five 
shillings  worth  at  a  time,  or  higher,  so  you  rise  to  the 
just  rates,  and  welcome.  But,  whatever  you  do,  Buy. 
Censure  will  not  drive  a  Trade,  or  make  the  Jacke  go. 
And  though  you  be  a  Magistrate  of  wit,  and  sit  on  the 
Stage  at  Black-Friers,  or  the  Cockpit,  to  arraigne  Playes 
dailie,  know,  these  Playes  have  had  their  triall  alreadie, 
and  stood  out  all  Appeales  ;  and  do  now  come  forth  quitted 
rather  by  a  Decree  of  Court,  than  any  purchas'd  Letters 
of  commendation. 

It  had  bene  a  thing,  we  confesse,  worthie  to  have  bene 
wished,  that  the  Author  himselfe  had  lived  to  have  set 
forth,  and  overseen  his  owne  writings  ;  But  since  it  hath 


Ixxx  THE   PREFACE   OF  THE  PLAYERS. 

bin  orcluin'd  otherwise,  and  he  by  death  departed  from 
that  right,  we  pray  you,  doe  not  envie  his  Friends,  the 
office  of  their  care  and  paine,  to  have  collected  and  pub- 
lish'd  them ;  and  so  to  have  publish'd  them,  as  where 
(before)  you  were  abus'd  with  divers  stolne,  and  surrep 
titious  copies,  maimed  and  deformed  by  the  frauds  and 
stealthes  of  injurious  impostors,  that  expos'd  them  :  even 
those  are  now  offer' d  to  your  view  cur'd,  and  perfect  of 
their  limbes  ;  and  all  the  rest,  absolute  in  their  numbers, 
as  he  conceived  the  :  Who,  as  he  was  a  happie  imitator 
of  Nature,  was  a  most  gentle  expresser  of  it.  His  mind 
and  hand  went  together  :  and  what  he  thought,  he  uttered 
with  that  easinesse,  that  wee  have  scarse  received  from 
him  a  blot  in  his  papers.  But  it  is  not  our  province,  who 
onely  gather  his  works,  and  give  them  you,  to  praise 
him.  It  is  yours  that  reade  him.  And  there  we  hope,  to 
your  divers  capacities,  you  will  finde  enough,  both  to  draw, 
and  hold  you  :  for  his  wit  can  no  more  lie  hid,  then  it 
could  be  lost.  Reade  him,  therefore ;  and  againe,  and 
againe  :  And  if  then  you  doe  not  like  him,  surely  you  are 
in  some  manifest  danger,  not  to  understand  him.  And  so 
we  leave  you  to  other  of  his  Friends,  whom  if  you  need, 
can  bee  your  guides  :  if  you  neede  them  not,  you  can  leade 
yourselves,  and  others.  And  such  readers  we  wish  him. 

JOHN  HEMLNGE, 
HENRIE  CONDELL. 


TEMPEST 


PRELIMINARY  REMARKS. 

"THE  Tempest  and  the  Midsummer  Night's  Drearn  (says  Warburton) 
are  the  noblest  efforts  of  that  sublime  and  amazing  imagination,  peculiar 
to  Shakspeare,  which  soars  above  the  bounds  of  nature,  without  forsaking 
sense,  or,  more  properly,  carries  nature  along  with  him  beyond  her  es 
tablished  limits." 

No  one  has  hitherto  discovered  the  novel  on  which  this  play  is  founded ; 
yet  Collins  the  poet  told  Thomas  Warton  that  the  plot  was  taken  from 
the  romance  of  "  Aurelio  and  Isabella,"  which  was  frequently  printed 
during  the  sixteenth  century,  sometimes  in  three  or  four  languages  in  the 
same  volume.  In  the  calamitous  mental  indisposition  which  visited  poor 
Collins,  his  memory  failed  him ;  and  he  most  probably  substituted  the 
name  of  one  novel  for  another :  the  fable  of  Aurelio  and  Isabella  has  no 
relation  to  the  Tempest.  Mr.  Malone  thought  that  no  such  tale  or  ro 
mance  ever  existed ;  yet  a  friend  of  the  late  Mr.  James  Boswell  told  him 
that  he  had  some  years  ago  actually  perused  an  Italian  novel  which 
ansAvered  Collins's  description ;  but  his  memory,  unfortunately,  did  not 
enable  him  to  recover  it. 

My  friend,  Mr.  Douce,  in  his  valuable  "Illustrations  of  Shakspeare," 
published  in  1807,  had  suggested  that  the  outline  of  a  considerable  part 
of  this  play  was  borrowed  from  the  account  of  Sir  George  Somers's  voyage 
and  shipwreck  on  the  Bermudas  in  1609 ;  and  had  pointed  out  some  pas 
sages  which  confirmed  his  suggestion.  At  the  same  time,  it  appears  that 
Mr.  Malone  was  engaged  in  investigating  the  relations  of  this  voyage  ;  and 
he  subsequently  printed  the  results  of  his  researches  in  a  pamphlet,  which 
he  distributed  among  his  friends ;  wherein  he  shows,  that  not  only  the 
title,  but  many  passages  in  the  play,  were  suggested  to  Shakspeare  by  the 
account  of  the  tremendous  Tempest,  which,  in  July,  1609,  dispersed  the 
fleet  carrying  supplies  from  England  to  the  infant  colony  of  Virginia,  and 
wrecked  the  vessel  in  which  Sir  George  Somers  and  the  other  principal 
commanders  had  sailed,  on  one  of  the  Bermuda  Islands. 

Sir  George  Somers,  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  and  Captain  Newport,  with 
nine  ships  and  five  hundred  people,  sailed  from  England  in  May,  1609,  on 
board  the  Sea- Venture,  which  was  called  the  Admiral's  Skip ;  and  on  the 
25th  of  July  she  was  parted  from  the  rest  by  a  terrible  tempest,  which 
lasted  forty-eight  hours,  and  scattered  the  whole  fleet,  wherein  some  of 
them  lost  their  masts,  and  others  were  much  distressed.  Seven  of  the 
vessels,  however,  reached  Virginia ;  and,  after  landing  about  three  hun 
dred  and  fifty  persons,  again  set  sail  for  England.  Two  of  them  were 
wrecked,  in  their  way  home,  on  the  point  of  Ushant :  the  others  returned 
safely  to  England,  ship  after  ship,  in  1610,  bringing  the  news  of  the  sup 
posed  loss  of  the  Admiral's  ship  and  her  crew.  During  a  great  part  of  the 
year  1610,  the  fate  of  Somers  and  Gates  was  not  known  in  England ;  but 
1 


TEMPEST. 

the  latter,  having  been  sent  home  by  Lord  Delaware,  arrived  in  August 
or  September.  The  Council  of  Virginia  published  a  narrative  of  the  dis 
asters  which  had  befallen  the  fleet,  and  of  their  miraculous  escape.  Pre 
viously,  however,  to  its  appearance,  one  Jourdan,  who  probably  returned 
from  Virginia  in  the  same  ship  with  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  published  a  pam 
phlet  entitled  "  A  Discovery  of  the  Bermudas,  otherwise  called  The  Isle 
of  Divels ;  by  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  Sir  George  Somers,  and  Captain  New 
port,  with  divers  others ; "  in  which  he  relates  the  circumstances  of  the 
storm.  "  They  were  bound  for  Virginia,  and  at  that  time  in  30°  N.  lati 
tude.  The  whole  crew,  amounting  to  one  hundred  and  fifty  persons, 
weary  with  pumping,  had  given  all  for  lost,  and  began  to  drink  their  strong 
waters,  and  to  take  leave  of  each  other,  intending  to  commit  themselves  to 
the  mercy  of  the  sea.  Sir  George  Somers,  who  had  sat  three  days  and 
nio-hts  on  the  poop,  with  no  food  and  little  rest,  at  length  descried  land, 
and  encouraged  them  (many  from  iveanness  having  fallen  asleep)  to  con 
tinue  at  the  pumps.  They  complied,  and  fortunately  the  ship  was  driven 
and  jammed  between  two  rocks,  fast  lodged  and  locked  for  further  budg 
ing."  One  hundred  and  fifty  persons  got  on  shore  ;  and  by  means  of  their 
boat  and  skiff' (for  this  was  half  a  mile  from  land)  they  saved  such  part  of 
their  goods  and  provisions  as  the  water  had  not  spoiled,  all  the  tackling 
and  much  of  the  iron  of  their  ship,  which  was  of  great  service  to  them  in 
fitting  out  another  vessel  to  carry  them  to  Virginia. 

"  But  our  delivery,"  says  Jourdan,  "  was  not  more  strange  in  falling  so 
opportunely  and  happily  upon  the  land,  as  [than]  our  feeding  and  provis 
ion  was,  beyond  our  hopes,  and  all  men's  expectations,  most  admirable ; 
for  the  Islands  of  the  Bermudas,  as  every  man  knoweth  that  hath  heard  or 
read  of  them,  were  never  inhabited  by  any  Christian  or  heathen  people, 
but  ever  esteemed  and  reputed  a  most  prodigious  and  enchanted  place,  af 
fording  nothing  but  gusts,  storms,  and  foul  weather;  which  made  every 
navigator  and  mariner  to  avoid  them  as  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  or  as  they 
would  shunne  the  Divell  himself:  and  no  man  was  ever  heard  to  make  for 
this  place  ;  but  as,  against  their  wils,  they  have,  by  stormes  and  dangerous- 
nesse  of  the  rocks  lying  seven  leagues  into  the  sea,  suffered  shipwracke. 
Yet  did  we  finde  there  the  ayre  so  temperate  and  the  country  so  aboundantli) 
fruitfull  of  all  fit  necessaries  for  the  sustentation  and  preservation  ot 
man's  life,  that,  most  in  a  manner  of  all  our  provision  of  bread,  beere,  and 
victuall  being  quite  spoiled  in  lying  long  drowned  in  salt  water,  notwith 
standing  Ave  were  there  for  the  space  of  nine  months,  we  were  not  only 
well  refreshed,  comforted,  and  with  good  satiety  contented,  but  out  of  the 
aboundance  thereof  provided  us  some  reasonable  quantity  and  proportion 
of  provision  to  carry  us  for  Virginia,  and  to  maintain  ourselves  and  that 
company  we  found  there  ; — wherefore  my  opinion  sincerely  of  this  island 
is,  that  whereas  it  hath  beene,  and  is  still  accounted  the  most  dangerous, 
unfortunate,  and  forlorne  place  of  the  world,  it  is  in  truth  the  richest,  health- 
fullest,  and  [most]  pleasing  land  (the  quantity  and  bignesse  thereof  con 
sidered),  and  merely  natural],  as  ever  man  set  foote  upon." 

The  publication  set  forth  by  the  Council  of  Virginia,  entitled,  "  A  true 
Declaration  of  the  Estate  of  the  Colony  of  Virginia,  &c.  1610,"  relates 
the  same  facts  and  events  in  better  language,  and  Shakspeare  probably 
derived  his  first  thought  of  working  these  adventures  up  into  a  dramatic  form 
from  an  allusion  to  the  drama  in  this  piece. 

"These  Islands  of  the  Bermudas,"  says  this  narrative,  "have  ever  been 
accounted  as  an  inchaunted  pile  of  rocks,  and  a  desert  inhabitation  for 
divclls  ;  but  all  the  fairies  of  the  rocks  were  but  flocks  of  birdes,  and  all 
the  divells  that  haunted  the  woods  were  but  beards  of  swine. — What  ia 
there  in  all  this  TragicaU  Comcedie  that  should  discourage  us  ?" 


PRELIMINARY   REMARKS.  3 

The  covert  allusions  to  several  circumstances  in  the  various  narrations 
of  this  voyage  have  been  illustrated  with  great  ingenuity  by  Mr.  Malone  ; 
and  many  of  them  will  no  doubt  have  already  struck  the  reader ;  but  we 
must  content  ourselves  with  a  reference  to  his  more  detailed  account. 

The  plot  of  this  play  is  very  simple,  independent  of  the  magic  ;  and  Mr. 
Malone  has  pointed  out  two  sources  from  whence  he  thinks  Shakspeare 
derived  suggestions  for  it.  The  one  is  a  play  by  Robert  Green,  entitled 
"  The  Comical  History  of  Alphonsus  King  of  Arragon : "  the  other  is  the 
Sixth  Metrical  Tale  of  George  Turberville,*  formed  on  the  fourth  novel  of 
the  fourth  day  of  the  Decamerone  of  Boccaccio,  to  which  he  is  probably  in 
debted  for  the  hint  of  the  marriage  of  Claribel.  The  magic  of  the  piece 
is  unquestionably  the  creation  of  the  great  Bard  himself,  suggested,  no 
doubt,  by  the  popular  notions  respecting  the  Bermudas.  Mr.  Malone  con 
fesses  that  the  hints  furnished  by  Green  are  so  slight  as  not  to  detract 
from  the  merit  of  Shakspeare,  and  I  have  therefore  not  thought  it  necessary 
to  follow  him  in  his  analysis.  The  late  Dr.  Vincent,  the  highly-respected 
Dean  of  Westminster,  pointed  out  a  passage  in  Magellan's  Voyage  to  the 
South  Pole,  which  is  to  be  found  in  "Eden's  History  of  Travaile," 
printed  in  1577,  that  may  have  furnished  the  first  idea  of  Caliban  ;  and  as 
it  is  curious  in  itself,  I  shall  venture  to  transcribe  it.  "  Departyng  from 
hence,"  says  Eden,  "  they  sayled  to  the  49  degre  and  a  halfe  under  the 
pole  antartike ;  where  being  wyntered,  they  were  inforced  to  remayne 
there  for  the  space  of  two  monethes,  all  which  tyme  they  saw  no  man  : 
except  that  one  day  by  chance  they  cspyed  a  man  of  the  stature  of  a  gyant, 
who  came  to  the  haven  daunting  and  singing,  and  shortly  after  seemed  to 
cast  dust  over  his  head.  The  captayne  sent  one  of  his  men  to  the  shore 
with  the  shippe  boate,  who  made  the  lyke  signe  of  peace.  The  which 
thyng  the  giant  seeing,  was  out  of  feare,  and  came  with  the  captayne's 
servant,  to  his  presence,  into  a  little  island.  When  he  sawe  the  cap 
tayne  with  certayne  of  his  company  about  him,  he  was  greatly  amazed ; 
and  made  signes,  holding  up  his  hande  to  heaven,  signifying  thereby  that 
our  men  came  from  thence.  This  giant  was  so  byg  that  the  head  of  one  of 
our  men  of  a  meane  stature  came  but  to  his  waste.  He  was  of  good  cor 
poration  and  well  made  in  all  partes  of  his  bodie,  with  a  large  visage 
painted  with  divers  colours,  but  for  the  most  parte  yelow.  Uppon  his 
cheekes  were  paynted  two  hartes,  and  red  circles  about  his  eyes.  The 
heare  of  his  head  was  coloured  whyte,  and  his  apparell  was  the  skynne 
of  a  beast  sowed  together.  This  beast  (as  seemed  unto  us)  had  a  large 
head,  and  great  eares  lyke  unto  a  mule,  with  the  body  of  a  cammell  and 
tayle  of  a  horse.  The  feet  of  the  gyant  were  folded  in  the  sayde  skynne, 
after  the  manner  of  shooes.  He  had  in  his  hande  a  bygge  and  shorte 
bowe  ;  the  sleyng  whereof  was  made  of  a  sinewe  of  that  bea,ste.  He  had 
also  a  bundle  of  long  arrowes  made  of  reedes,  feathered  after  the  manner 
of  ours,  typte  with  sharpe  stones,  in  the  stead  of  iron  heades.  The  captayne 
caused  him  to  eate  and  drinke,  and  gave  him  many  thinges,  and  among 
other  a  great  looking  glasse,  in  the  which  as  soon  as  he  sawe  his  owne 
likeness,  Avas  sodaynly  afrayde,  and  started  backe  with  suche  violence, 
that  he  overthrewe  two  that  stood  nearest  about  him.  When  the  captayne 
had  thus  gyven  him  certayne  haukes  belles,  with  also  a  lookyng  glasse,  a 
combe,  and  a  payre  of  beades  of  glasse,  he  sent  him  to  lande  with  foure 
of  his  owne  men  well  armed.  Shortly  after,  they  sawe  another  gyant  of 
somewhat  greater  stature  with  his  bowe  and  arrowes  in  his  hande.  As  he 
drew  nearer  unto  our  men  hee  laide  his  hande  on  his  head,  and  pointed 
up  towards  heaven,  and  our  men  did  the  lyke.  The  captayne  sent  his 

*  Tragical  Tales,  translated  by  Turberville,  in  time  of  his  troubles,  out  of  sundiie  Italians, 
&c.  8vo.  1587. 


4  TEMPEST. 

shippe  boate  to  bring  him  to  a  little  islande,  beyng  in  the  haven.  This 
giant  was  very  tractable  and  pleasaunt.  He  soong  and  daunsed,  arid  in 
his  daunsing  left  the  print  of  his  feete  on  the  ground.  After  other  xv 
dayes  were  past,  there  came  foure  other  giauntes  without  any  weapons, 
but  had  hid  their  bowes  and  arrowes  in  certaine  bushes.  The  captayne  re- 
tayned  two  of  these,  which  were  youngest  and  best  made.  He  tooke 
them  by  a  deceite,  in  this  manner  ;  that  giving  them  knyves,  sheares, 
looking-glasses,  belles,  beades  of  chrystall,  arid  such  other  trifles,  he  so 
fylled  their  handes,  that  they  could  holde  no  more  ;  then  caused  two  paire 
of  shackels  of  iron  to  be  putt  on  their  legges,  making  signes  that  he  would 
also  give  them  those  chaynes,  which  they  liked  very  well  because  they 
were  made  of  bright  and  shining  metall.  And  whereas  they  could  not 
carry  them  bycause  theyr  hands  were  full,  the  other  giants  would  have 
carryed  them,  but  the  captayne  would  not  suffer  them.  When  they  felt 
the  shackels  fast  about  theyr  legges,  they  began  to  doubt;  but  the  cap 
tayne  did  put  them  in  comfort  and  bade  them  stand  stille.  In  fine,  when 
they  sawe  how  they  were  deceived,  they  roared  lyke  bulles,  and  cryed 
upon  theyr  great  devill  Sctebos,  to  help  them.  They  say  that  when  any 
of  them  dye,  there  appeare  x  or  xi  devils  leaping  and  daunsing  about  the 
bodic  of  the  dead,  and  sceme  to  have  theyr  bodies  paynted  with  divers 
colours,  and  that  among  other  there  is  one  scene  bigger  than  the  residue, 
who  maketh  great  mirth  with  rejoysing.  This  great  devyll  they  call  Se- 
tebos,  and  call  the  lesse  Cheleule.  One  of  these  giantes  which  they  tooke, 
declared  by  signes  that  he  had  seen  devylles  with  two  homes  above  theyr 
heades,  with  long  heare  doivne  to  theyr  feete,  and  that  they  caste  forth  fyre  at 
theyr  throates  both  before  and  behind.  The  captayne  named  these  people 
Patagoni.  The  moste  parte  of  them  weare  the  skynnes  of  such  beastes 
whereof  I  have  spoken  before.  They  lyve  of  raw  fleshe,  and  a  certaine 
sweete  roote  which  they  call  capar." 

Caliban,  as  was  long  since  observed  by  Dr.  Farmer,  is  merely  the 
metathesis  of  Cannibal.  Of  the  Cannibals  a  long  account  is  given  by 
Eden,  ubi  supra. 

"  The  Tempest,"  says  the  judicious  Schlegel,  "  has  little  action  and 
progressive  movement ;  the  union  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  is  fixed  at 
their  first  meeting,  and  Prospero  merely  throws  apparent  obstacles  in  their 
way  ;  the  shipwrecked  band  go  leisurely  about  the  island ;  the  attempts 
of  Sebastian  and  Antonio  on  the  life  of  the  King  of  Naples,  and  of  Caliban 
and  his  drunken  companions  against  Prospero,  are  nothing  but  a  feint,  as 
we  foresee  that  they  will  be  completely  frustrated  by  the  magical  skill  of 
the  latter :  nothing  remains  therefore  but  the  punishment  of  the  guilty,  by 
dreadful  sights  which  harrow  up  their  consciences,  the  discovery,  and 
final  reconciliation.  Yet  this  want  is  so  admirably  concealed  by  the  most 
varied  display  of  the  fascinations  of  poetry  and  the  exhilaration  of  mirth  ; 
the  details  of  the  execution  are  so  very  attractive,  that  it  requires  no  small 
degree  of  attention  to  perceive  that  the  denouement  is,  in  some  measure, 
already  contained  in  the  exposition.  The  history  of  the  love  of  Ferdinand 
and  Miranda,  developed  in  a  few  short  scenes,  is  enchantingly  beautiful ; 
an  affecting  union  of  chivalrous  magnanimity  on  the  one  part,  and,  on  the 
other,  of  the  virgin  openness  of  a  heart  which,  brought  up  far  from  the 
world  on  an  uninhabited  island,  has  never  learned  to  disguise  its  innocent 
movements.  The  wisdom  of  the  princely  hermit  Prospero  has  a  magical 
and  mysterious  air ;  the  impression  of  the  black  falsehood  of  the  two 
usurpers  is  mitigated  by  the  honest  gossiping  of  the  old  and  faithful 
Gonzalo ;  Trinculo  and  Stephano,  two  good-for-nothing  drunkards,  find  a 
worthy  associate  in  Caliban  ;  and  Ariel  hovers  sweetly  over  the  whole  as 
the  personified  genius  of  the  wonderful  fable. 


PRELIMINARY   REMARKS.  5 

"  Caliban  has  become  a  bye-word,  as  the  strange  creation  of  a  poetical 
imagination.  A  mixture  of  the  gnome  and  the  savage,  half  demon,  half 
brute  ;  in  his  behavior  we  perceive  at  once  the  traces  of  his  native  dispo 
sition,  and  the  influence  of  Prospero's  education.  The  latter  could  only 
unfold  his  understanding,  without,  in  the  slightest  degree,  taming  his 
rooted  malignity  :  it  is  as  if  the  use  of  reason  and  human  speech  should 
be  communicated  to  a  stupid  ape.  Caliban  is  malicious,  cowardly,  false, 
and  base  in  his  inclinations ;  and  yet  he  is  essentially  dhTerent  from  the 
vulgar  knaves  of  a  civilized  world,  as  they  are  occasionally  portrayed  by 
Shakspeare.  He  is  rude,  but  not  vulgar ;  he  never  falls  into  the  prosaical 
and  low  familiarity  of  his  drunken  associates,  for  he  is  a  poetical  being  in 
his  way ;  he  always  speaks  too  in  verse.*  He  has  picked  up  every  thing 
dissonant  and  thorny  in  language,  out  of  which  he  has  composed  his  vo 
cabulary,  and  of  the  whole  variety  of  nature,  the  hateful,  repulsive,  and 
pettily-deformed  have  alone  been  impressed  on  his  imagination.  The 
magical  world  of  spirits,  which  the  staff  of  Prospero  has  assembled  on  the 
island,  casts  merely  a  faint  reflection  into  his  mind,  as  a  ray  of  light  which 
falls  into  a  dark  cave,  incapable  of  communicating  to  it  either  heat  or  il 
lumination,  merely  serves  to  put  in  motion  the  poisonous  vapors.  The 
whole  delineation  of  this  monster  is  inconceivably  consistent  and  pro 
found,  and,  notwithstanding  its  hatefulness,  by  no  means  hurtful  to  our 
feelings,  as  tne  honor  of  human  nature  is  left  untouched. 

"  In  the  zephyr-like  Ariel  the  image  of  air  is  not  to  be  mistaken  ;  his 
name  even  bears  an  allusion  to  it:  on  the  other  hand,  Caliban  signifies 
the  heavy  element  of  earth.  Yet  they  are  neither  of  them  allegorical  per 
sonifications,  but  beings  individually  determined.  In  general  we  find,  in 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  in  the  Tempest,  in  the  magical  part  of 
Macbeth,  and  wherever  Shakspeare  avails  himself  of  the  popular  belief  in 
the  invisible  presence  of  spirits,  and  the  possibility  of  coming  in  contact 
with  them,  a  profound  view  of  the  inward  life  of  Nature  and  her  mysteri 
ous  springs  ;  which,  it  is  true,  ought  never  to  be  altogether  unknown  to 
the  genuine  poet,  as  poetry  is  altogether  incompatible  with  mechanical 
physics,  but  which  few  ha\  e  possessed  in  an  equal  degree  with  Dante 
and  himself."  f 

It  seems  probable  that  this  play  was  written  in  1611 ;  at  all  events  be 
tween  the  years  1609  and  1614.  It  appears  from  the  MSS.  of  Vertue,  that 
the  Tempest  was  acted,  by  John  Heminge  and  the  rest  of  the  King's 
Company,  before  Prince  Charles,  the  Lady  Elizabeth,  and  the  Prince 
Palatine  Elector,  in  the  beginning  of  the  year  1613. 

*  Srhlegel  is  not  quite  correct  in  asserting  that  Caliban  "  always  speaks  in  verse."  Mr. 
Steeveris,  it  is  true,  endeavored  to  give  a  metrical  form  to  some  of  his  speeches,  which  were 
evidently  intended  for  prose,  and  they  are,  therefore,  in  the  present  edition,  so  printed. 
Shakspeare,  throughout  his  plays,  frequently  introduces  short  prose  speeches  in  the  midst 
of  blank  verse. 

t  Lectures  on  Dramatic  Literature,  by  Aug.  Will.  Schlegel,  translated  by  John  Black,  1815. 
Vol.  ii.  p.  178 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED.1 

ALONZO,  King  of  Naples. 

SEBASTIAN,  his  Brother. 

PROSPERO,  the  rightful  Duke  of  Milan. 

ANTONIO,  his  Brother,  the  usurping  Duke  of  Milan. 

FERDINAND,  Son  to  the  King  of  Naples. 

GONZALO,  an  honest  old  Counsellor  of  Naples. 

ADRIAN,       )  r      , 

FRANCISCO  9}Lords' 

CALIBAN,  a  savage  and  deformed  Slave. 

TRINCULO,  a  Jester. 

STEPIIANO,  a  drunken  Butler 

Master  of  a  Ship,  Boatswain,  and  Mariners. 

MIRANDA,  Daughter  to  Prospero. 

ARIEL,  an  airy  Spirit. 

IRIS,        \ 

CERES,    / 

JUNO,       \Spirits. 

Nymphs,  I 

Reapers,  ) 

Other  Spirits  attending  on  Prospero 

SCENE.  The  Sea,  with  a  Ship;  afterwards  an  uninhabited  Island 
i  From  the  Folio  Edition  of  1623. 


TEMPEST. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— On  a  Ship  at  Sea. 
A  Storm,  with  Thunder  and  Lightning. 
Enter  a  Ship-master  and  a  Boatswain. 

Master.   BOATSWAIN, — 
Boats.    Here,  master :  what  cheer  ? 
Mast.    Good  :  speak  to  the  mariners  :  fall  to't  yare- 
Jy,1  or  w^  run  ourselves  aground:  bestir,  bestir.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mariners. 

Boats.  Heigh,  my  hearts;  cheerly,  cheerly,  my 
hearts;  yare,  yare :  Take  in  the  top-sail;  Tend  to 
the  master's  whistle. — Blow  till  thou  burst  thy  wind, 
if  room  enough ! 

Enter  ALONZO,    SEBASTIAN,    ANTONIO,    FERDINAND, 
GONZALO,  and  others. 

Alon.  Good  Boatswain,  have  care.  Where's  the 
master  ?  Play  the  men.2 

Boats.    I  pray  now,  keep  below. 

Ant.   Where  is  the  master,  boatswain  ? 

Boats.  Do  you  not  hear  him  ?  You  mar  our  labor ! 
keep  your  cabins :  you  do  assist  the  storm. 

Gon.   Nay,    good,  be  patient. 

Boats.   When  the  sea  is.     Hence !  What  care  these 

1  Readily,  nimbly.  2  Behave  like  men. 


8  TEMPEST.  [ACT  1. 

roarers  for  the  name  of  king  ?  To  cabin :  silence : 
trouble  us  not. 

Gon.  Good ;  yet  remember  whom  thou  hast 
aboard. 

Boats.  None  that  I  more  love  than  myself.  You 
are  a  counsellor  ;  if  you  can  command  these  elements  to 
silence,  and  work  the  peace  of  the  present,1  we  will  not 
hand  a  rope  more  ;  use  your  authority.  If  you  cannot, 
give  thanks  you  have  lived  so  long,  and  make  yourself 
ready  in  your  cabin  for  the  mischance  of  the  hour,  if 
it  so  hap. — Cheerly,  good  hearts. — Out  of  our  way, 
I  say.  [Exit. 

Gon.  I  have  great  comfort  from  this  fellow :  me- 
thinks  he  hath  no  drowning  mark  upon  him ;  his  com 
plexion  is  perfect  gallows.  Stand  fast,  good  fate,  to 
his  hanging !  make  the  rope  of  his  destiny  our  cable, 
for  our  own  doth  little  advantage !  if  he  be  not  bom 
to  be  hanged,  our  case  is  miserable.  [Exeunt, 

Re-enter  Boatswain. 

Boats.  Down  with  the  top-mast ;  yare ;  lower, 
lower ;  bring  her  to  try  with  main  course.3  [A  cry 
within.]  A  plague  upon  this  howling  !  they  are  louder 
than  the  weather,  or  our  office. — 

Re-enter  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  and  GONZALO. 

Yet  again !  what  do  you  here  ?  Shall  we  give  o'er, 
and  drown  ?  Have  you  a  mind  to  sink  ? 

Scb.  A  pox  o'  your  throat !  you  bawling,  blasphe 
mous,  uncharitable  dog ! 

Boats.    Work  you,  then. 

Ant.  Hang,  cur,  hang !  you  whoreson,  insolent 
noise-maker,  we  are  less  afraid  to  be  drowned  than 
thou  art. 

Gon.    I'll  warrant  him  from  drowning ;  though  the 

1  The  present  instant. 

2  In  Smith's  Sea  Grammar,  1627,  4to.,  under  the  article  How  to  handle 
a  Ship  in  a  Storme  : — "  Let  us  lie  as  Trie  with  our  main  course  ;  that  is, 
to  hale  the  tacke  ahoord,  the  sheat  close  aft,  the  boling  set  up,  and  the 
helm  tied  close  aboord." 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  9 

ship  were  no  stronger  than  a  nut-shell,  and  as  leaky  as 
an  unstanched  wench. 

Boats.  Lay  her  a-hold,  a-hold  ;  set  her  two  courses  ; l 
off  to  sea  again,  lay  her  off. 

Enter  Mariners,  ivet. 

Mar.    All  lost !  to  prayers,  to  prayers  !  all  lost ! 

[Exeunt. 

Boats.    What,  must  our  mouths  be  cold  ? 

Gon.    The  king  and  prince  at  prayers !  let  us  assist 

them, 
For  our  case  is  as  theirs. 

Seb.    I  am  out  of  patience. 

Ant.   We  are  merely2  cheated  of  our  lives  by  drunk 
ards. — 
This  wide-chapped  rascal ; — 'Would,  thou  might'st  lie 

drowning, 
The  washing  of  ten  tides  ! 

Gon.  He'll  be  hanged  yet; 

Though  every  drop  of  water  swear  against  it, 
And  gape  at  wid'st  to  glut3  him. 
[A  confused  noise  witkin.~\     Mercy  on  us  ! — We  split, 
we  split ! — Farewell,  my  wife  and  children  ! — Farewell, 
brother ! — We  split,  we  split,  we  split. 

Ant.    Let's  all  sink  with  the  king.  [Exit. 

Seb.    Let's  take  leave  of  him.  [Exit. 

Gon.  Now  would  I  give  a  thousand  furlongs  of  sea 
for  an  acre  of  barren  ground  ;  long 4  heath,  brown  furze, 
any  thing :  The  wills  above  be  done !  but  I  would 
fain  die  a  dry  death.  [Exit. 

1  The  courses  are  the  main-sail  and  fore-sail.     To  lay  a  ship  a-hold,  is 
to  bring  her  to  lie  as  near  the  wind  as  she  can,  in  order  to  keep  clear  of 
the  land  and  get  her  out  to  sea. 

2  Absolutely,  entirely. 

3  To  englut,  to  swallow. 

4  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer  reads — ling,  heath,  broom,  furze,  &c. 

VOL.    I.  2 


10  TEMPEST.  [ACT  I. 

SCENE  IL—The  Island:  before  the  CellofPiospero. 
Enter  PROSPERO  and  MIRANDA. 

Mir  a.    If  by  your  art,  my  dearest  father,  you  have 
Put  the  wild  waters  in  this  roar,  allay  them : 
The  sky,  it  seems,  would  pour  down  stinking  pitch, 
But  that  the  sea,  mounting  to  the  welkin's  cheek, 
Dashes  the  fire  out.     O,  I  have  suffered 
With  those  that  I  saw  suffer !  a  brave  vessel, 
Who  had  no  doubt  some  noble  creatures  in  her, 
Dashed  all  to  pieces.     O,  the  cry  did  knock 
Against  my  very  heart !     Poor  souls  !  they  perished. 
Had  I  been  any  god  of  power,  I  would 
Have  sunk  the  sea  within  the  earth,  or  e'er 
It  should  the  good  ship  so  have  swallowed,  and 
The  freighting l  souls  within  her. 

Pro.  Be  collected : 

No  more  amazement :  tell  your  piteous  heart, 
There's  no  harm  done. 

Mir  a.  O,  wo  the  day ! 

Pro.  No  harm. 

I  have  done  nothing  but  in  care  of  thee, 
(Of  thee,  my  dear  one  !  thee,  my  daughter !)  who 
Art  ignorant  of  what  thou  art,  nought  knowing 
Of  whence  I  am ;  nor  that  I  am  more  better 
Than  Prospero,  master  of  a  full  poor  cell, 
And  thy  no  greater  father. 

Mir  a.  More  to  know 

Did  never  meddle 2  with  my  thoughts. 

Pro.  'Tis  time 

I  should  inform  thee  further.     Lend  thy  hand, 
And  pluck  my  magic  garment  from  me. — So : 

[Lays  down  his  mantle. 
Lie    there,    my   art. — Wipe    thou   thine    eyes ;    have 

comfort. 
The  direful  spectacle  of  the  wreck,  which  touched 

1  The  first  folio  reads  fraughting.        2  To  mix,  or  to  interfere  with 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  11 

The  very  virtue  of  compassion  in  thee, 

I  have  with  such  provision  in  mine  art 

So  safely  ordered,  that  there  is  no  soul — 

No,  not  so  much  perdition  as  an  hair, 

Betid  to  any  creature  in  the  vessel 

Which  thou  heard'st  cry,  which  thou  saw'st  sink.     Sit 

down ; 
For  thou  must  now  know  further. 

Mira.  You  have  often 

Begun  to  tell  me  what  I  am ;  but  stopped 
And  left  me  to  a  bootless  inquisition  ; 
Concluding,  Stay,  not  yet. — 

Pro.  The  hour's  now  come ; 

The  very  minute  bids  thee  ope  thine  ear ; 
Obey,  and  be  attentive.     Can'st  thou  remember 
A  time  before  we  came  into  this  cell  ? 
I  do  not  think  thou  can'st ;  for  then  thou  wast  not 
Out 1  three  years  old. 

Mira.  Certainly,  sir,  I  can. 

Pro.    By  what  ?  by  any  other  house,  or  person  ? 
Of  any  thing  the  image  tell  me,  that 
Hath  kept  with  thy  remembrance. 

Mira.  'Tis  far  off; 

And  rather  like  a  dream  than  an  assurance 
That  my  remembrance  warrants  :     Had  I  not 
Four  or  five  women  once,  that  tended  me  ? 

Pro.   Thou  had'st,  and  more,  Miranda:  But  how 

is  it, 

That  this  lives  in  thy  mind  ?     What  seest  thou  else 
In  the  dark  backward  and  abysm  of  time  ? 
If  thou  remember'st  aught,  ere  thou  cam'st  here, 
How  cam'st  thou  here,  thou  may'st. 

Mira.  But  that  I  do  not. 

Pro.   Twelve  years  since,  Miranda,  twelve   years 

since, 

Thy  father  was  the  duke  of  Milan,  and 
A  prince  of  power. 

Mira.  Sir,  are  not  you  my  father  ? 

1  Entirely,  quite. 


14  TEMPEST.  [ACT  1. 

Mira.  I  should  sin 

To  think  but  nobly  of  my  grandmother : 
Good  wombs  have  borne  bad  sons. 

Pro.  Now  the  condition. 

This  king  of  Naples,  being  an  enemy 
To  me  inveterate,  hearkens  my  brother's  suit ; 
Which  was,  that  he  in  lieu 1  o'  the  premises, — 
Of  homage,  and  I  know  not  how  much  tribute, — 
Should  presently  extirpate  me  and  mine 
Out  of  the  dukedom  ;  and  confer  fair  Milan, 
With  all  the  honors,  on  my  brother :  Whereon, 
A  treacherous  army  levied,  one  midnight 
Fated  to  the  purpose,  did  Antonio  open 
The  gates  of  Milan  ;  and,  i'  the  dead  of  darkness, 
The  ministers  for  the  purpose  hurried  thence 
Me,  and  thy  crying  self. 

Mira.  Alack,  for  pity! 

I,  not  remembering  how  I  cried  out  then, 
Will  cry  it  o'er  again ;  it  is  a  hint,2 
That  wrings  mine  eyes  to't. 

Pro.  Hear  a  little  further, 

And  then  I'll  bring  thee  to  the  present  business 
Which  now's  upon  us ;  without  the  which,  this  story 
Were  most  impertinent. 

Mira.  Wherefore  did  they  not 

That  hour  destroy  us  ? 

Pro.  Well  demanded,  wench  ; 

My  tale  provokes  that  question.     Dear,  they  durst  not; 
(So  dear  the  love  my  people  bore  me)  nor  set 
A  mark  so  bloody  on  the  business  ;  but  i 

With  colors  fairer  painted  their  foul  ends. 
In  few,  they  hurried  us  aboard  a  bark , 
Bore  us  some  leagues  to  sea ;  where  they  prepared 
A  rotten  carcass  of  a  boat,  not  rigged, 
Nor  tackle,  sail,  nor  mast ;  the  very  rats 
Instinctively  had  quit  it ;  there  they  hoist  us, 
To  cry  to  the  sea  that  roared  to  us ;   to  sigh 

1  In  consideration  of  the  premises.  2  Cause  or  subject. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  15 

To  the  winds,  whose  pity,  sighing  back  again, 
Did  us  but  loving  wrong. 

Mir  a.  Alack !  what  trouble 

Was  I  then  to  you ! 

Pro.  O  !  a  cherubim 

Thou  wast,  that  did  preserve  me !     Thou  didst  smile, 
Infused  with  a  fortitude  from  heaven, 
When  I  have  decked l  the  sea  with  drops  full  salt ; 
Under  my  burden  groaned ;  which  raised  in  me 
An  undergoing  stomach,2  to  bear  up 
Against  what  should  ensue. 

Mira.  How  came  we  ashore  ? 

Pro.    By  Providence  divine. 
Some  food  we  had,  and  some  fresh  water,  that 
A  noble  Neapolitan,  Gonzalo, 
Out  of  his  charity,  (who  being  then  appointed 
Master  of  this  design,)  did  give  us  ;  with 
Rich  garments,  linens,  stuffs,  and  necessaries, 
Which  since  have  steaded  much  ;  so,  of  his  gentleness, 
Knowing  I  loved  my  books,  he  furnished  me, 
From  my  own  library,  with  volumes  that 
I  prize  above  my  dukedom. 

Mira.  'Would  I  might 

But  ever  see  that  man ! 

Pro.  Now  I  arise  : — 

Sit  still,  and  hear  the  last  of  our  sea-sorrow. 
Here  in  this  island  we  arrived ;  and  here 
Have  I,  thy  school-master,  made  thee  more  profit 
Than  other  princes  can,  that  have  more  time 
For  vainer  hours,  and  tutors  not  so  careful. 

Mira.    Heavens  thank  you  for't !     And  now,  I  pray 

you,  sir, 

(For  still  'tis  beating  in  my  mind,)  your  reason 
For  raising  this  sea-storm  ? 

Pro.  Know  thus  far  forth. — 

By  accident  most  strange,  bountiful  fortune, 
Now  my  dear  lady,  hath  mine  enemies 
Brought  to  this  shore  :  and  by  my  prescience 

1  Sprinkled.  2  A  temper  or  frame  of  mind  to  bear. 


16  TEMPEST.  [ACT  I. 

I  find  my  zenith  doth  depend  upon 

A  most  auspicious  star ;  whose  influence 

If  now  I  court  not,  but  omit,  my  fortunes 

Will  ever  after  droop. — Here  cease  more  questions  ; 

Thou  art  inclined  to  sleep ;  'tis  a  good  dulness, 

And  give  it  way ; — I  know  thou  canst  not  choose. — 

[MIRANDA  sleeps. 

Come  away,  servant,  come  :  1  am  ready  now  ; 
Approach,  my  Ariel ;  come. 

Enter  ARIEL. 

ATI.    All  hail,  great  master !  grave  sir,  hail !  I  come 
To  answer  thy  best  pleasure ;  be't  to  fly, 
To  swim,  to  dive  into  the  fire,  to  ride 
On  the  curled  clouds :  to  thy  strong  bidding,  task 
Ariel,  and  all  his  quality.1 

Pro.  Hast  thou,  spirit, 

Performed  to  point,2  the  tempest  that  I  bade  thee  ? 

Ari.    To  every  article. 

I  boarded  the  king's  ship ;  now7  on  the  beak,3 
Now  in  the  waist,  the  deck,  in  every  cabin, 
I  flamed  amazement :  Sometimes,  I'd  divide, 
And  burn  in  many  places ;  on  the  top-mast, 
The  yards,  and  bowsprit,  would  I  flame  distinctly, 
Then  meet,  and  join  :  Jove's  lightnings,  the  precursors 
O'  the  dreadful  thunder-claps,  more  momentary 
And  sight  out-running  were  not :  The  fire,  and  cracks 
Of  sulphurous  roaring,  the  most  mighty  Neptune 
Seemed  to  besiege,  and  make  his  bold  waves  tremble, 
Yea,  his  dread  trident  shake. 

Pro.  My  brave  spirit ! 

Who  was  so  firm,  so  constant,  that  his  coil 4 
Would  not  infect  his  reason  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  soul 

But  felt  a  fever  of  the  mad,  and  played 

1  The  powers  of  Ids  nature  as  a  spirit. 
3  To  the  minutest  article. 

3  The  beak  was  a  strong1  pointed   body  at  the  head  of  ancient  galleys 
The  -waist  is  the  part  between  the  quarter-deck  and  the  forecastle. 
1  Bustle,  tumult. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  17 

Some  tricks  of  desperation  :  All,  but  manners, 
Plunged  in  the  foaming  brine,  and  quit  the  vessel, 
Then  all  a-fire  with  me :  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand, 
With  hair  up-starting,  (then  like  reeds,  not  hair,) 
Was  the  first  man  that  leaped ;  cried,  Hell  is  empty, 
And  all  the  devils  are  here. 

Pro.  Why,  that's  my  spirit ! 

But  was  not  this  nigh  shore  ? 

Ari.  Close  by,  my  master. 

Pro.    But  are  they,  Ariel,  safe  ? 

Ari.  Not  a  hair  perished ; 

On  their  sustaining  garments  not  a  blemish, 
But  fresher  than  before :  and  as  thou  bad'st  me, 
In  troops  I  have  dispersed  them  'bout  the  isle : 
The  king's  son  have  I  landed  by  himself; 
Whom  I  left  cooling  of  the  air  with  sighs, 
In  an  odd  angle  of  the  isle,  and  sitting, 
His  arms  in  this  sad  knot. 

Pro.  Of  the  king's  ship, 

The  mariners,  say,  how  thou  hast  disposed, 
And  all  the  rest  o'  the  fleet. 

Ari.  Safely  in  harbor 

Is  the  king's  ship ;  in  the  deep  nook,  where  once 
Thou  call'st  me  up  at  midnight  to  fetch  dew 
From  the  still-vexed  Bermoothes,1  there  she's  hid ; 
The  mariners  all  under  hatches  stowed ; 
Whom,  with  a  charm  joined  to  their  suffered  labor, 
I  have  left  asleep  :  and  for  the  rest  o'  the  fleet, 
Which  I  dispersed,  they  all  have  met  again ; 
And  are  upon  the  Mediterranean  flote,2 
Bound  sadly  home  for  Naples ; 
Supposing  that  they  saw  the  king's  ship  wrecked, 
And  his  great  person  perish. 

Pro.  Ariel,  thy  charge 

1  The  epithet  here  applied  to  the  Bermudas  will  be  best  understood  by 
tliose  who  have  seen  the  chafing  of  the  sea  over  the  rugged  rocks  by 
which  they  are  surrounded,  and  which  renders  access  to  them  so  difficult. 
It  was  then  the  current  opinion  that  Bermudas  was  inhabited  by  monsters 
and  devils.     Setebos,  the  god  of  Caliban's  dam,  was  an  American  devil, 
worshipped  by  the  giants  of  Patagonia. 

2  Waves,  or  the  sea.     Plot,  FT. 

VOL.    I.  3 


18  TEMPEST.  [ACT  I> 

Exactly  is  performed  ;  but  there's  more  work : 
What  is  the  time  o'  the  day  ? 

ATI.  Past  the  mid  season. 

Pro.    At  least  two  glasses :  the  time  'twixt  six  and 

now 
Must  by  us  both  be  spent  most  preciously. 

Ari.    Is  there  more  toil  ?  since  thou  must  give  me 

pains, 

Let  me  remember  thee  what  thou  hast  promised, 
Which  is  not  yet  performed  me. 

Pro.  How  now !  moody  ? 

What  is't  thou  can'st  demand  ? 

Ari.  My  liberty. 

Pro.   Before  the  time  be  out  ?  no  more. 

Ari.  I  pray  thee 

Remember,  1  have  done  thee  worthy  service ; 
Told  thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakings,  served 
Without  or  grudge  or  grumblings  :  thou  didst  promise 
To  bate  me  a  full  year. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  forget 

From  what  a  torment  I  did  free  thee  ? 

Ari.  No. 

Pro.    Thou  dost ;  and  think'st  it  much,  to  tread  the 


ooze 


Of  the  salt  deep  ; — 

To  run  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north ; 
To  do  me  business  in  the  veins  o?  the  earth, 
When  it  is  baked  with  frost. 

Ari.  I  do  not,  sir. 

Pro.    Thou  liest,  malignant  thing !  Hast  thou  forgot 
The  foul  witch,  Sycorax,  who,  with  age  and  envy, 
Was  grown  into  a  hoop  ?  hast  thou  forgot  her  ? 

Ari.   No,  sir. 

Pro.  Thou  hast :   where  was  she    born  ? 

speak ;  tell  me. 

Ari.    Sir,  in  Argier.1 

Pro.  O,  was  she  so  ?     I  must, 

Once  in  a  month,  recount  what  thou  hast  been, 

i  The  old  English  name  of  Algiers. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  19 

Which  thou  forget'st.     This  damned  witch,  Sycorax, 
For  mischiefs  manifold,  and  sorceries  terrible 
To  enter  human  hearing,  from  Argier, 
Thou  know'st,  was  banished;  for  one  thing  she  did, 
They  would  not  take  her  life  :  Is  not  this  true  ? 

Ari.    Ay,  sir. 

Pro.    This  blue-eyed  hag  was  hither  brought  with 

child, 

And  here  was  left  by  the  sailors :  Thou,  my  slave, 
As  thou  report'st  thyself,  was  then  her  servant : 
And,  for  thou  wast  a  spirit  too  delicate 
To  act  her  earthy  and  abhorred  commands, 
Refusing  her  grand  hests,1  she  did  confine  thee, 
By  help  of  her  more  potent  ministers, 
And  in  her  most  unmitigable  rage, 
Into  a  cloven  pine  ;  within  which  rift 
Imprisoned,  thou  didst  painfully  remain 
A  dozen  years ;  within  which  space  she  died, 
And    left   thee   there ;     where    thou   didst   vent    thy 

groans, 

As  fast  as  mill-wheels  strike  :  Then  was  this  island, 
(Save  for  the  son  that  she  did  litter  here, 
A  freckled  whelp,  hag-born)  not  honored  with 
A  human  shape. 

Ari.  Yes  ;  Caliban  her  son. 

Pro.    Dull  thing,  I  say  so  ;  he,  that  Caliban, 
Whom  now  I  keep  in  service.     Thou  best  know'st 
What  torment  I  did  find  thee  in :  thy  groans 
Did  make  wolves  howl,  and  penetrate  the  breasts 
Of  ever-angry  bears  :  it  was  a  torment 
To  lay  upon  the  damned,  which  Sycorax 
Could  not  again  undo ;  it  was  mine  art, 
When  I  arrived,  and  heard  thee,  that  made  gape 
The  pine,  and  let  thee  out. 

Ari.  I  thank  thee,  master. 

Pro.    If  thou  more  murmur'st,  I  will  rend  an  oak, 
And  peg  thee  in  his  knotty  entrails,  till 
Thou  hast  howled  away  twelve  winters. 

1  Behests,  commands. 


20  TEMPEST.  [ACT  1 

Ari.  Pardon,  master. 

I  will  be  correspondent  to  command, 
And  do  my  sprighting  gently. 

Pro.  Do  so  ;  and  after  two  days 

I  will  discharge  thee. 

Ari.  That's  my  noble  master ! 

What  shall  I  do  ?  say  what  ?  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Pro.    Go,  make  thyself  like  a  nymph  o'  the  sea  ;  be 

subject 

To  no  sight  but  thine  and  mine ;  invisible 
To  every  eyeball  else.     Go,  take  this  shape, 
And  hither  come  in't :  go  hence,  with  diligence. 

[Exit  ARIEL. 

Awake,  dear  heart,  awake  !  thou  hast  slept  well ; 
Awake ! 

Mira.    The  strangeness  of  your  story  put 
Heaviness  in  me. 

Pro.  Shake  it  off:  Come  on  ; 

We'll  visit  Caliban,  my  slave,  who  never 
Yields  us  kind  answer. 

Mira.  'Tis  a  villain,  sir, 

I  do  not  love  to  look  on. 

Pro.  But,  as  'tis, 

We  cannot  miss 1  him :  he  does  make  our  fire, 
Fetch  in  our  wood ;  and  serves  in  offices 
That  profit  us.     What  ho  !  slave  !  Caliban  ! 
Thou  earth,  thou  !  speak. 

Cal.    [Within.']     There's  wood  enough  within. 

Pro.    Come    forth,    1    say;    there's  other  business 

for  thee : 
Come  forth,  thou  tortoise  !  when  ?  2 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  like  a  Water-nymph. 

Fine  apparition  !  My  quaint 3  Ariel, 
Hark  in  thine  ear. 
Ari.  My  lord,  it  shall  be  done.     [Exit. 


1  We  cannot  do  ivithout  him. 

2  A  common  expression  of  impatience. 

3  Brisk,  spruce,  dexterous,  from  the  French  cointe. 


SC.  II.J  TEMPEST.  21 

Pro.    Thou  poisonous  slave,  got  by  the  devil  himself 
Upon  thy  wicked  dam,  come  forth ! 

Enter  CALIBAN. 

Col.  As  wicked  dew  as  e'er  my  mother  brushed 
With  raven's  feather  from  unwholesome  fen, 
Drop  on  you  both !  a  south-west  blow  on  ye, 
And  blister  you  all  o'er ! 

Pro.    For  this,   be   sure,   to-night  thou  shalt  have 

cramps, 

Side-stitches  that  shall  pen  thy  breath  up ;  urchins 1 
Shall,  for  that  vast 2  of  night  that  they  may  work 
All  exercise  on  thee :  thou  shalt  be  pinched 
As  thick  as  honey-combs,  each  pinch  more  stinging 
Than  bees  that  made  them. 

Cal.  I  must  eat  my  dinner. 

This  island's  mine,  by  Sycorax  my  mother, 
Which  thou  tak'st  from  me.     When  thou  earnest  first, 
Thou  strok'dst  me,  and  mad'st  much  of  me ;  wouldst 

give  me 

Water  with  berries  in't ;  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less, 
That  bum  by  day  and  night :  and  then  I  loved  thee, 
And  showed  thee  all  the  qualities  o'  the  isle, 
The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fertile ; 
Cursed  be  I  that  did  so ! — All  the  charms 
Of  Sycorax,  toads,  beetles,  bats,  light  on  you ! 
For  I  am  all  the  subjects  that  you  have, 
Which  first  was  mine  own  king :  and  here  you  sty  me 
In  this  hard  rock,  whiles  you  do  keep  from  me 
The  rest  of  the  island. 

Pro.  Thou  most  lying  slave, 

Whom  stripes  may  move,  not  kindness !  I  have  used 
thee, 

1  Urchins  were  fairies  of  a  particular  class.     Hedgehogs  were  also  call 
ed  urchins ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the  sprites  were  so  named,  because 
they  were  of  a  mischievous  kind,  the  urchin  being  anciently  deemed  a 
very  noxious  animal. 

2  That  vast  of  night  is  that  space  of  night.    So,  in  Hamlet: 

«  In  the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night." 


22  TEMPEST.  [ACT  I. 

Filth  as  thou  art,  with  human  care  ;  and  lodged  thee 
In  mine  own  cell,  till  thou  didst  seek  to  violate 
The  honor  of  my  child. 

CaL    O  ho,  O  ho !— 'would  it  had  been  done  ! 
Thou  didst  prevent  me ;  I  had  peopled  else 
This  isle  with  Calibans. 

Pro.  Abhorred  slave, 

Which  any  print  of  goodness  will  not  take, 
Being  capable  of  all  ill !  I  pitied  thee, 
Took  pains  to  make  thee  speak,  taught  thee  each  hour 
One  thing  or  other ;  wrhen  thou  didst  not,  savage, 
Know  thine  own  meaning,  but  wouldst  gabble  like 
A  thing  most  brutish,  I  endowed  thy  purposes 
With  words  that  made  them  known  :  But  thy  vile  race, 
Though  thou  didst  learn,   had  that  in't  which  good 

natures 

Could  not  abide  to  be  with ;  therefore  wast  thou 
Deservedly  confined  into  this  rock, 
Who  hadst  deserved  more  than  a  prison. 

CaL    You  taught  me  language  ;  and  my  profit  on't 
Is,  I  know  how  to  curse :  The  red  plague  rid l  you, 
For  learning  me  your  language  ! 

Pro.  Hag-seed,  hence ! 

Fetch  us  in  fuel ;  and  be  quick,  thou  wert  best, 
To  answer  other  business.     Shrug'st  thou,  malice  ? 
If  thou  neglect'st,  or  dost  unwillingly 
What  I  command,  I'll  rack  thee  with  old  cramps ; 
Fill  all  thy  bones  with  aches : 2  make  thee  roar, 
That  beasts  shall  tremble  at  thy  din ! 

CaL   No,  'pray  thee  ! — 

I  must  obey :  his  art  is  of  such  power,  [Aside. 

It  would  control  my  dam's  god,  Setebos,3 
And  make  a  vassal  of  him. 

Pro.  So,  slave,  hence  ! 

[Exit  CALIBAN. 

1  Destroy. 

2  The  word  aches  is  evidently  a  dissyllable  here. 

3  "  The  giants,  when  they  found  themselves  fettered,  roared  like  bulls, 
and  cried  upon  Setebos  to  help  them." — Eden's  Hist,  of  Travayle,  1577. 
p.  434. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  23 

Re-enter  ARIEL  invisible,  playing  and  singing. 
FERDINAND  following  him. 

ARIEL'S  SONG. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Curtsied  when  you  have,  and  kissed, 

(The  wild  waves  ivhist,1) 
Foot  itfeatly,  here  and  there , 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

Hark,  hark! 
Bur.   Bowgh,  wowgh.  [Dispersedly. 

The  watch-dogs  bark : 
Bur.   Bowgh,  wowgh.  [Dispersedly. 

Hark,  hark!  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticlere 
Cry,  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

Fer.    Where  should  this  music  be  ?  i'  the  air,  or  the 

earth  ? 

It  sounds  no  more ; — and  sure,  it  waits  upon 
Some  god  of  the  island.     Sitting  on  a  bank, 
Weeping  again  the  king  my  father's  wreck, 
This  music  crept  by  me  upon  the  waters ; 
Allaying  both  their  fury,  and  my  passion, 
With  its  sweet  air :  thence  I  have  followed  it, 
Or  it  hath  drawn  me  rather : — But  'tis  gone. 
No,  it  begins  again. 

ARIEL  sings. 

Full  fathom  jive  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

[Burden,  ding-dong. 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them, — ding-dong,  bell. 

1  Still,  silent 


24  TEMPEST.  [ACT  1. 

Fer.    The  ditty  does  remember  my  drowned  father. — 
This  is  no  mortal  business,  nor  no  sound 
That  the  earth  owes  : 1 — I  hear  it  now  above  me. 

Pro.    The  fringed  curtains  of  thine  eye  advance, 
And  say,  what  thou  seest  yond'. 

Mira.  What  is't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
ft  carries  a  brave  form : — But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Pro.    No,  wench ;  it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath  such 

senses 

As  we  have,  such :  This  gallant,  which  thou  seest, 
Was  in  the  wreck ;  and  but  he's  something  stained 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  might'st 

call  him 

A  goodly  person :  he  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mira.  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine  ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro.  It  goes  on,  I  see,  [Aside. 

As  my  soul  prompts  it : — Spirit,  fine  Spirit !  I'll  free  thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

Fer.  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend ! — Vouchsafe,  my  prayer 
May  know,  if  you  remain  upon  this  island ; 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give, 
How  I  may  bear  me  here :  My  prime  request, 
Which  I  do  last  pronounce,  is,  O  you  wonder ! 
If  you  be  maid,  or  no  ? 

Mira.  No  wonder,  sir ; 

But  certainly  a  maid. 

Fer.  My  language  !  heavens  ! — 

I  am  the  best  of  them  that  speak  this  speech, 
Were  I  but  where  'tis  spoken. 

Pro.  How  !  the  best  ? 

What  wert  thou,  if  the  king  of  Naples  heard  thee  ? 

Fer.    A  single  thing,  as  I  am  now,  that  wonders 
To  hear  thee  speak  of  Naples ;  he  does  hear  me  ; 

1  i.  e.  owns. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  25 

And,  that  he  does,  I  weep  :  myself  am  Naples  ; 
Who  with  mine  eyes,  ne'er  since  at  ebb,  beheld 
The  king  my  father  wrecked. 

Mir  a.  Alack,  for  mercy ! 

Fer.    Yes,  faith,  and  all  his  lords  ;  the  duke  of  Milan 
And  his  brave  son,  being  twain. 

Pro.  The  duke  of  Milan, 

And  his  more  braver  daughter,  could  control 1  thee, 
If  now  'twere  fit  to  do't : — At  the  first  sight      [Aside. 
They  have  changed  eyes  ; — Delicate  Ariel, 
I'll  set  thee  free  for  this  ! — A  word,  good  sir ; 
I  fear,  you  have  done  yourself  some  wrong  : 2  a  word. 

Mir  a.    Why  speaks  my  father  so  ungently  ?  This 
Is  the  third  man  that  e'er  I  saw ;  the  first 
That  e'er  I  sighed  for :  pity  move  my  father 
To  be  inclined  my  way ! 

Fer.  O,  if  a  virgin, 

And  your  affection  not  gone  forth,  I'll  make  you 
The  queen  of  Naples. 

Pro.  Soft,  sir ;  one  word  more. — 

They  are  both  in  cither's  powers  :  but  this  swift  business 
I  must  uneasy  make,  lest  too  light  winning        [Aside, 
Make  the  prize  light. — One  word  more  ;  I  charge  thee, 
That  thou  attend  me  :  thou  dost  here  usurp 
The  name  thou  ow'st  not ;  and  hast  put  thyself 
Upon  this  island,  as  a  spy,  to  win  it 
From  me,  the  lord  on't. 

Fer.  No,  as  I  am  a  man. 

Mir  a.    There's    nothing   ill   can   dwell   in   such   a 

temple : 

If  the  ill  spirit  have  so  fair  an  house, 
Good  things  will  strive  to  dwell  with  't. 

Pro.  Follow  me. — [To  FERD. 

Speak  not  you  for  him ;  he's  a  traitor. — Come. 
I'll  manacle  thy  neck  and  feet  together  ; 
Sea-water  shalt  thou  drink,  thy  food  shall  be 
The  fresh-brook  muscles,  withered  roots,  and  husks 

1  To  control  here  signifies  to  confute. 

2  That  is,  spoken  a  falsehood. 
VOL.    I.  4 


26  TEMPEST.  [ACT  I. 

Wherein  the  acorn  cradled :  Follow. 

Per.  No  ; 

I  will  resist  such  entertainment,  till 
Mine  enemy  has  more  power.  [He  draws. 

Mira.  O  dear  father, 

Make  not  too  rash  a  trial  of  him,  for 
lie's  gentle,  and  not  fearful.1 

Pro.  What,  I  say, 

My  foot  my  tutor  ! — Put  thy  sword  up,  traitor ; 
Who  mak'st  a  show,  but  dar'st  not  strike,  thy  con 
science 

Is  so  possessed  with  guilt :  come  from  thy  ward ; 
For  I  can  here  disarm  thee  with  this  stick, 
And  make  thy  weapon  drop. 

Mira.  Beseech  you,  father ! 

Pro.    Hence  ;  hang  not  on  my  garments. 

Mira.  Sir,  have  pity ; 

I'll  be  his  surety. 

Pro.  Silence  :  one  word  more 

Shall  make  me  chide  thee,  if  not  hate  thee.     What ! 
An  advocate  for  an  impostor  ?  hush  ! 
Thou  think'st  there  are  no  more  such  shapes  as  he, 
Having  seen  but  him  and  Caliban :  Foolish  wench ! 
To  the  most  of  men  this  is  a  Caliban, 
And  they  to  him  are  angels. 

Mira.  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man. 

Pro.  Come  on  ;  obey:    [To  FERD. 

Thy  nerves  are  in  their  infancy  again ; 
And  have  no  vigor  in  them. 

Per.  So  they  are  : 

My  spirits,  as  in  a  dream,  are  all  bound  up. 
My  father's  loss,  the  weakness  which  I  feel, 
The  wreck  of  all  my  friends,  or  this  man's  threats, 
To  whom  I  am  subdued,  are  but  light  to  me, 
Might  I  but  through  my  prison  once  a  day 

1  Fearful  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  formidable,  terrible, 
dreadful,  like  the  French  epouvantable.  Shakspeare  almost  always  uses 
it  in  this  sense. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  27 

Behold  this  maid :  all  comers  else  o'  the  earth 
Let  liberty  make  use  of;  space  enough 
Have  I  in  such  a  prison. 

Pro.  It  works  : — Come  on. — 

Thou  hast  done  well,  fine  Ariel ! — Follow  me. — 

[To  FERD.  and  Mm  A. 
Hark,  what  thou  else  shalt  do  me.  [To  ARIEL. 

Mir  a.  Be  of  comfort ; 

My  father's  of  a  better  nature,  sir, 
Than  he  appears  by  speech ;  this  is  unwonted, 
Which  now  came  from  him. 

Pro.  Thou  shalt  be  as  free 

As  mountain  winds :  but  then  exactly  do 
All  points  of  my  command. 

Ari.  To  the  syllable. 

Pro.    Come,  follow :  speak  not  for  him.      [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.     Another  Part  of  the  Island. 

Enter    ALONZO,     SEBASTIAN,     ANTONIO,     GONZALO, 
ADRIAN,  FRANCISCO,  and  others. 

Gon.    'Beseech  you,  sir,  be  merry :  you  have  cause 
(So  have  we  all)  of  joy ;  for  our  escape 
Is  much  beyond  our  loss  :  our  hint 1  of  wo 
Is  common ;  every  day,  some  sailor's  wife, 
The  masters  of  some  merchant,2  and  the  merchant, 
Have  just  our  theme  of  wo  :  but  for  the  miracle, 
I  mean  our  preservation,  few  in  millions 
Can  speak  like  us :  then  wisely,  good  sir,  weigh 
Our  sorrow  with  our  comfort. 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

1  Cause  or  subject. 

2  It  was  usual  to  call  a  merchant-vessel  a  merchant,  as  we  now  say  a 
merchant-man. 


28  TEMPEST.  [ACT  II. 

Seb.    He  receives  comfort  like  cold  porridge. 

Ant.    The  visitor *  will  not  give  him  o'er  so. 

Seb.  Look,  he's  winding  up  the  w7atch  of  his  wit ; 
by  and  by  it  will  strike. 

Gon.    Sir, 

Seb.    One: Tell. 

Gon.  When  every  grief  is  entertained,  that's  offered; 
Comes  to  the  entertainer — 

Seb.  A  dollar. 

Gon.  Dolor  comes  to  him,  indeed ;  you  have 
spoken  truer  than  you  purposed. 

Seb.  You  have  taken  it  wiselier  than  I  meant  you 
should. 

Gon.    Therefore,  my  lord, — 

Ant.    Fie,  what  a  spendthrift  is  he  of  his  tongue  ! 

Alon.    I  pr'ythee,  spare. 

Gon.    Well,  I  have  :  But  yet — 

Seb.    He  will  be  talking. 

Ant.  Which  of  them,  he,  or  Adrian,  for  a  good 
wager,  first  begins  to  crow? 

Seb.    The  old  cock. 

Ant.    The  cockerel. 

Seb.    Done  :  The  wager  ? 

Ant.    A  laughter. 

Seb.    A  match. 

Adr.    Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert, — 

Seb.    Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Ant.    So  you've  payed. 

Adr.    Uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible, — 

Seb.   Yet,— 

Adr.    Yet. 

Ant.    He  could  not  miss  it. 

Adr.  It  must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender,  and  deli 
cate  temperance.2 

Ant.    Temperance  was  a  delicate  wench. 

Seb.  Ay,  and  a  subtle ;  as  he  most  learnedly  de 
livered. 

1  In  allusion  to  the  office  of  one  who  visits  the  sick  to  give  advice  and 
consolation. 

2  Temperance  is  here  used  for  temperature,  or  tempcratcness. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  29 

Adr.    The  air  breathes  upon  us  here  most  sweetly. 

Scb.    As  if  it  had  lungs,  and  rotten  ones. 

Ant.    Or,  as  'twere  perfumed  by  a  fen. 

Gon.    Here  is  every  thing  advantageous  to  life. 

Ant.    True  ;  save  means  to  live. 

Seb.    Of  that  there's  none,  or  little. 

Gon.  How  lush 1  and  lusty  the  grass  looks !  how 
green ! 

Ant.    The  ground,  indeed,  is  tawny. 

Seb.    With  an  eye  of  green  in't. 

Ant.    He  misses  not  much. 

Seb.    No ;  he  doth  but  mistake  the  truth  totally. 

Gon.  But  the  rarity  of  it  is  (which  is  indeed  almost 
beyond  credit) — 

Seb.    As  many  vouched  rarities  are. 

Gon.  That  our  garments,  being,  as  they  were, 
drenched  in  the  sea,  hold,  notwithstanding,  their  fresh 
ness,  and  glosses  ;  being  rather  new  dyed  than  stained 
with  salt  water. 

Ant.  If  but  one  of  his  pockets  could  speak,  would 
it  not  say,  he  lies  ? 

Seb.    Ay,  or  very  falsely  pocket  up  his  report. 

Gon.  Methinks,  our  garments  are  now  as  fresh  as 
when  we  put  them  on  first  in  Afric,  at  the  marriage 
of  the  king's  fair  daughter  Claribel  to  the  king  of  Tunis. 

Seb.  'Twas  a  sweet  marriage,  and  we  prosper  well 
in  our  return. 

Adr.  Tunis  was  never  graced  before  with  such  a 
paragon  to  their  queen. 

Gon.   Not  since  widow  Dido's  time. 

Ant.  Widow  ?  a  pox  o'  that !  How  came  that 
widow  in  ?  Widow  Dido ! 

Seb.  What  if  he  had  said  widower  ^Eneas  too  ? 
good  lord,  how  you  take  it ! 

Adr.  Widow  Dido,  said  you  ?  you  make  me  study 
of  that :  she  was  of  Carthage,  not  of  Tunis. 

Gon.    This  Tunis,  sir,  was  Carthage. 


A  dr.    Carthage  ? 


1  Luxuriant. 


30  TEMPEST.  [ACT  11 

Gon.    I  assure  you,  Carthage. 

Ant.    His  word  is  more  than  the  miraculous  harp. 

Seb.    He  hath  raised  the  wall,  and  houses  too. 

Ant.  What  impossible  matter  will  he  make  easy 
next  ? 

Seb.  I  think  he  will  carry  this  island  home  in  his 
pocket,  and  give  it  his  son  for  an  apple. 

Ant.  And  sowing  the  kernels  of  it  in  the  sea,  bring 
forth  more  islands. 

Gon.    Ay  ? 

Ant.   Why,  in  good  time. 

Gon.  Sir,  we  were  talking  that  our  garments  seem 
now  as  fresh  as  when  we  were  at  Tunis  at  the  mar- 
raige  of  your  daughter,  who  is  now  queen. 

Ant.    And  the  rarest  that  e'er  came  there. 

Seb.    'Bate,  I  beseech  you,  widow  Dido. 

Ant.    O,  widow  Dido ;  ay,  widow  Dido. 

Gon.  Is  not,  sir,  my  doublet  as  fresh  as  the  first 
day  I  wore  it  ?  I  mean,  in  a  sort. 

Ant.    That  sort  was  well  fished  for. 

Gon.    When  I  wore  it  at  your  daughter's  marriage  ? 

Alon.  You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears,  against 
The  stomach  of  my  sense  :  'Would  I  had  never 
Married  my  daughter  there !  for,  coming  thence, 
My  son  is  lost ;  and,  in  my  rate,  she  too, 
Who  is  so  far  from  Italy  removed, 
I  ne'er  again  shall  see  her.     O  thou  mine  heir 
Of  Naples  and  of  Milan,  what  strange  fish 
Hath  made  his  meal  on  thee ! 

Fran.  Sir,  he  may  live  ; 

I  saw  him  beat  the  surges  under  him, 
And  ride  upon  their  backs ;  he  trod  the  water, 
Whose  enmity  he  flung  aside,  and  breasted 
The  surge  most  swoln  that  met  him :  his  bold  head 
'Bove  the  contentious  waves  he  kept,  and  oared 
Himself  with  his  good  arms  in  lusty  stroke 
To  the  shore,  that  o'er  his  wave-worn  basis  bowed, 
As  stooping  to  relieve  him :  I  not  doubt, 
He  came  alive  to  land. 

Alon.  No,  no,  he's  gone. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  31 

Seb.    Sir,  you  may  thank  yourself  for  this  great  loss  ; 
That  would  not  bless  our  Europe  with  your  daughter, 
But  rather  lose  her  to  an  African ; 
Where  she,  at  least,  is  banished  from  your  eye, 
Who  has  cause  to  wet  the  grief  on't. 

Alon.  Pr'ythee,  peace. 

Seb.    You  were  kneeled  to,  and  importuned  other 
wise 

By  all  of  us ;  and  the  fair  soul  herself 
Weighed,1  between  loathness  and  obedience,  at 
Which  end  o'  the   beam  she'd  bow.     We   have  lost 

your  son, 

I  fear,  forever ;  Milan  and  Naples  have 
More  widows  in  them  of  this  business5  making, 
Than  we  bring  men  to  comfort  them :  the  fault's 
Your  own. 

Alon.    So  is  the  dearest 2  of  the  loss. 

Gon.  My  lord  Sebastian, 

The  truth  you  speak  doth  lack  some  gentleness, 
And  time  to  speak  it  in ;  you  rub  the  sore, 
When  you  should  bring  the  plaster. 

Seb.  Very  well. 

Ant.  And  most  chirurgeonly. 

Gon.    It  is  foul  weather  in  us  all,  good  sir, 
When  you  are  cloudy. 

Seb.  Foul  \veather  ? 

Ant.  Very  foul. 

Gon.    Had  I  a  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, — 

Ant.    He'd  sow  it  with  nettle-seed. 

Seb.  Or  docks,  or  mallows. 

Gon.    And  were  the  king  of  it,  what  would  I  do  ? 

Seb.    'Scape  getting  drunk,  for  want  of  wine. 

Gon.    r  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things  :  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;  riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none  ;  contract,  succession, 

1  i.  e.  deliberated,  was  in  suspense. 

2  The  reader  is  referred  to  Home  Tooke  for  the  best  commentary  on 
the  apparently  opposite  uses  of  this  word  by  the  ancient  writers. 


32  TEMPEST.  [ACT  II. 

Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none : 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation  ;  all  men  idle,  all ; 
And  women  too ;  but  innocent  and  pure  : 
No  sovereignty : — 

Seb.  And  yet  he  would  be  king  on't, 

Ant.  The  latter  end  of  his  commonwealth  forgets 
the  beginning. 

Gon.    All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce 
Without  sweat  or  endeavor  :  treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine,1 
Would  I  not  have  ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foison,2  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 

Seb.    No  marrying  among  his  subjects  ? 

Ant.   None,  man ;  all  idle  ;  whores,  and  knaves. 

Gon.    I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
To  excel  the  golden  age. 

Seb.  'Save  his  majesty ! 

Ant.    Long  live  Gonzalo ! 

Gon.  And,  do  you  mark  me,  sir  ? — 

Alon.    Pr'ythee,  no  more :   thou  dost  talk  nothing 
to  me. 

Gon.  I  do  well  believe  your  highness  ;  and  did  it  to 
minister  occasion  to  these  gentlemen,  who  are  of  such 
sensible  and  nimble  lungs,  that  they  always  use  to 
laugh  at  nothing. 

Ant.    'Twas  you  we  laughed  at. 

Gon.  Who,  in  this  kind  of  merry  fooling,  am  noth 
ing  to  you ;  so  you  may  continue,  and  laugh  at  noth 
ing  still. 

Ant.    What  a  blow  was  there  given  ? 

Seb.    An  it  had  not  fallen  flat-long. 

Gon.    You   are    gentlemen   of  brave    mettle :    you 

1  An  engine  was  a  term  applied  to  any  kind  of  machine  in  Shak- 
speare's  age. 

2  Foison  is  only  another  word  for  plenty  or  abundance,  of  provision,  but 
chiefly  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth.     In  a  subsequent  scene  we  have — 

"  Earth's  increase,  and  foison  plenty." 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  33 

would  lift  the  moon  out  of  her  sphere,  if  she  would 
continue  in  it  five  weeks  without  changing.1 

Enter  ARIEL,  invisible,  playing  solemn  music. 

Seb.    We  would  so,  and  then  go  bat-fowling. 

Ant.    Nay,  good  my  lord,  be  not  angry. 

Gon.  No,  I  warrant  you ;  I  will  not  adventure  my 
discretion  so  weakly.  Will  you  laugh  me  asleep,  for  I 
am  very  heavy  ? 

Ant.    Go  sleep,  and  hear  us. 

[All  sleep  but  ALON.  SEB.  and  ANT 

Alon.  What,  all  so  soon  asleep !  I  wish  mine  eyes 
Would,  with  themselves,  shut  up  my  thoughts :  I  find, 
They  are  inclined  to  do  so. 

Seb.  Please  you,  sir, 

Do  not  omit  the  heavy  offer  of  it : 
It  seldom  visits  sorrow ;  when  it  doth, 
It  is  a  comforter. 

Ant.  We  two,  my  lord, 

Will  guard  your  person,  while  you  take  your  rest, 
And  watch  your  safety. 

Alon.  Thank  you  :  Wondrous  heavy. 

[ALONZO  sleeps.     Exit  ARIEL, 

Seb.   What  a  strange  drowsiness  possesses  them ! 

Ant.    It  is  the  quality  o'  the  climate. 

Seb.  Why 

Doth  it  not  then  our  eye-lids  sink  ?  I  find  not 
Myself  disposed  to  sleep. 

Ant.  Nor  I ;  my  spirits  are  nimble. 

They  fell  together  all,  as  by  consent ; 
They  dropped,  as  by  a  thunder-stroke.     What  might, 
Worthy  Sebastian  ? — O,  what  might  ? — No  more  ; — 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  see  it  in  thy  face, 
What  thou  should'st  be  :  the  occasion  speaks  thee  ;  and 
My  strong  imagination  sees  a  crown 
Dropping  upon  thy  head. 

Seb.  What,  art  thou  waking  ? 

_  i  Warburton  remarks  that  "  all  this  dialogue  is  a  fine  satire  on  the  Uto 
pian  Treatise  of  Government,  and  the  impracticable,  inconsistent  schemes 
therein  recommended." 


VOL.    I, 


34  TEMPEST.  [ACT  II, 

Ant.   Do  you  not  hear  me  speak  ? 

Seb.  I  do ;  and,  surely, 

It  is  a  sleepy  language  ;  and  thou  speak'st 
Out  of  thy  sleep  :  What  is  it  thou  didst  say  ? 
This  is  a  strange  repose,  to  be  asleep 
With  eyes  wide  open ;  standing,  speaking,  moving, 
And  yet  so  fast  asleep. 

Ant.  Noble  Sebastian, 

Thou  let'st  thy  fortune  sleep — die  rather ;  wink'st 
Whiles  thou  art  waking. 

Seb.  Thou  dost  snore  distinctly; 

There's  meaning  in  thy  snores. 

Ant.    I  am  more  serious  than  my  custom  :  you 
Must  be  so  too,  if  heed  me ;  which  to  do, 
Trebles  thee  o'er.1 

Seb.  Well ;  I  am  standing  water. 

Ant.    I'll  teach  you  how  to  flow. 

Seb.  Do  so  :  to  ebb, 

Hereditary  sloth  instructs  me. 

Ant.  O, 

If  you  but  knew  how  you  the  purpose  cherish, 
Whiles  thus  you  mock  it !  how,  in  stripping  it, 
You  more  invest  it ! 2     Ebbing  men,  indeed, 
Most  often  do  so  near  the  bottom  run, 
By  their  own  fear,  or  sloth. 

Seb.  Pr'ythee,  say  on  : 

The  setting  of  thine  eye,  and  cheek,  proclaim 
A  matter  from  thee  ;  and  a  birth,  indeed, 
Which  throes  thee  much  to  yield. 

Ant.  Thus,  sir : 

Although  this  lord  of  weak  remembrance,  this 
(Who  shall  be  of  as  little  memory, 

1  Antonio  apparently  means  to  say,  "You  must  be  more  serious  than 
you  usually  are,  if  you  would  pay  attention  to  my  proposals ;  which  atten 
tion,  if  you  bestow  it,  will  in  the  end  make  you  thrice  what  you  are" 

2  Sebastian  introduces  the  simile  of  water.     It  is  taken  iip  by  Antonio, 
who  says  he  will  teach  his  stagnant  waters  to  flow.     "It  has  already 
learned  to  ebb,"  says  Sebastian.     To  which  Antonio  replies — "  O,  if  you 
but  knew  how  much  even  that  metaphor,  which  you  use  in  jest,  encourages 
the  design  which  I  hint  at ;  how,  in  stripping  it  of  words  of  their  common 
meaning,  and  using  them  figuratively,  you  adapt  them  to  your  own  situa 
tion." — Edinburgh  Magazine,  Nov.  1786. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  35 

When  he  is  earthed,)  hath  here  almost  persuaded 
(For  he's  a  spirit  of  persuasion,  only 
Professes  to  persuade)  the  king,  his  son's  alive ; 
'Tis  as  impossible  that  he's  undrowned, 
As  he  that  sleeps  here,  swims. 

Seb.  I  have  no  hope 

That  he's  undrowned. 

Ant.  O,  out  of  that  no  hope, 

What  great  hope  have  you !  no  hope,  that  way,  is 
Another  way  so  high  in  hope,  that  even 
Ambition  cannot  pierce  a  wink  beyond, 
But  doubts  discovery  there.     Will  you  grant,  with  me, 
That  Ferdinand  is  drowned  ? 

Seb.  He's  gone. 

Ant.  Then  tell  me, 

Who's  the  next  heir  of  Naples  ? 

Seb.  Claribel. 

Ant.    She  that  is  queen  of  Tunis  ;  she  that  dwells 
Ten  leagues  beyond  man's  life  ;  she  that  from  Naples 
Can  have  no  note,1  unless  the  sun  were  post, 
(The  man  i'  the  moon's  too  slow,)  till  new-born  chins 
Be  rough  and  razorable  :  she,  from  whom 
We  all  were  sea-swallowed,  though  some  cast  again ; 
And,  by  that  destiny,  to  perform  an  act, 
Whereof  what's  past  is  prologue  ;  what  to  come, 
In  yours  and  my  discharge.2 

Seb.  What  stuff  is  this  ? — How  say  you  ? 

'Tis  true,  my  brother's  daughter's  queen  of  Tunis  ; 
So  is  she  heir  of  Naples ;  'twixt  which  regions 
There  is  some  space. 

Ant.  A  space  whose  every  cubit 

Seems  to  cry  out,  How  shall  that  Claribel 
Measure  us  back  to  Naples  ? — Keep  in  Tunis, 
And  let  Sebastian  wake  ! — Say,  this  were  death 

1  The  commentators  have  treated  this  as  a  remarkable  instance  of 
Shakspeare's   ignorance   of  geography;    but  though  the   real   distance 
between  Naples  and  Tunis  is  not  so  immeasurable,  the  intercourse  in 
early  times  between  the  Neapolitans  and  the  Tunisians  was  not  so  fre 
quent  as  to  make  it  popularly  considered  less  than  a  formidable  voyage. 

2  What  is  past  is  the  prologue  to  events  which  are  to  come  ;  that  de 
pends  on  what  you  and  I  are  to  perform. 


36  TEMPEST.  fACT  II. 

That  now  hath  seized  them ;  why  they  were  no  worse 

Than  now  they  are :  There  be,  that  can  rub  Naples, 

As  well  as  he  that  sleeps ;  lords,  that  can  prate 

As  amply,  and  unnecessarily, 

As  this  Gonzalo  ;  I  myself  could  make 

A  chough 1  of  as  deep  chat.     O,  that  you  bore 

The  mind  that  I  do !  what  a  sleep  were  this 

For  your  advancement !     Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Seb.   Methinks,  I  do. 

Ant.  And  how  does  your  content 

Tender  your  own  good  fortune  ? 

Seb.  I  remember, 

You  did  supplant  your  brother  Prospero. 

Ant.  True: 

And,  look,  how  well  my  garments  sit  upon  me; 
Much  feater  than  before :  My  brother's  servants 
Were  then  my  fellows,  now  they  are  my  men. 

Seb.    But,  for  your  conscience — 

Ant.    Ay,  sir ;  where  lies  that  ?  if  it  were  a  kybe, 
'Twould  put  me  to  my  slipper ;  but  I  feel  not 
This  deity  in  my  bosom :  twenty  consciences, 
That  stand  'twixt  me  and  Milan,  candied  be  they, 
And  melt,  e'er  they  molest !     Here  lies  your  brother, 
No  better  than  the  earth  he  lies  upon, 
If  he  were  that  which  now  he's  like,  that's  dead  ; 
Whom  I,  with  this  obedient  steel,  three  inches  of  it, 
Can  lay  to  bed  forever :  whiles  you,  doing  thus, 
To  the  perpetual  wink  for  aye  might  put 
This  ancient  morsel,  this  sir  Prudence,  who 
Should  not  upbraid  our  course.     For  all  the  rest, 
They'll  take  suggestion,2  as  a  cat  laps  milk  ; 
They'll  tell  the  clock  to  any  business  that 
We  say  befits  the  hour. 

Seb.  Thy  case,  dear  friend, 

Shall  be  my  precedent ;  as  thou  got'st  Milan, 
I'll  come  by  Naples.     Draw  thy  sword  :  one  stroke 

1  A  chough  is  a  bird  of  the  jackdaw  kind. 

2  Suggestion  is  frequently  used  in  the  sense  of  temptation,  or  seduction, 
by  Shakspeare  and  his  contemporaries.     The  sense  here  is,  that  they  will 
adopt  and  bear  witness  to  any  tale  that  may  be  dictated  to  them. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  37 

Shall  free  thee  from  the  tribute  which  thou  pay'st ; 
And  I  the  king  shall  love  thee. 

Ant.  Draw  together : 

And  when  I  rear  my  hand,  do  you  the  like, 
To  fall  it  on  Gonzalo. 

Seb.  O,  but  one  word. 

[They  converse  apart. 

Music.     Re-enter  ARIEL,  invisible. 

Ari.   My  master  through  his  art  foresees  the  danger 
That  you,  his  friend,  are  in ;  and  sends  me  forth, 
For  else  his  projects  die,1  to  keep  them  living. 

[Sings  in  GONZALO'S  ear. 

While  you  here  do  snoring  lie, 
Open-eyed  conspiracy 

His  time  doth  take : 
If  of  life  you  keep  a  care, 
Shake  off  slumber,  and  beware : 

Awake!  awake! 

Ant.    Then  let  us  both  be  sudden. 

Gon.    Now,  good  angels,  preserve  the  king. 

[  They  wake. 

Alon.   Why,  how  now !  ho !  awake  !  Why  are  you 

drawn  ? 
Wherefore  this  ghastly  looking  ? 

Gon.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Seb.   Whiles  we  stood  here  securing  your  repose, 
Even  now,  we  heard  a  hollow  burst  of  bellowing 
Like  bulls,  or  rather  lions ;  did  it  not  wake  you  ? 
It  struck  mine  ear  most  terribly. 

Alon.  I  heard  nothing. 

Ant.    O,  'twas  a  din  to  fright  a  monster's  ear ; 
To  make  an  earthquake  ;  sure  it  was  the  roar 
Of  a  whole  herd  of  lions. 

i  The  old  copies  read  "For  else  his  project  dies."  By  the  transposition 
of  a  letter,  this  passage,  which  has  much  puzzled  the  editors,  is  rendered 
more  intelligible. — " — to  keep  them  living,"  relates  to  projects,  and  not  to 
Jllonzo  and  Gonzo/o,  as  Steevens  and  Johnson  erroneously  supposed. 


38  TEMPEST.  [ACT  II. 

Alon.  Heard  you  this,  Gonzalo  ? 

Gon.    Upon  mine  honor,  sir,  I  heard  a  humming, 
And  that  a  strange  one  too,  which  did  awake  me : 
I  shaked  you,  sir,  and  cried ;  as  mine  eyes  opened, 
I  saw  their  weapons  drawn  : — there  was  a  noise, 
That's  verity  :  'Best  stand  upon  our  guard ; 
Or  that  we  quit  this  place  :  let's  draw  our  weapons. 

Alon.    Lead  off  this  ground ;  and  let's  make  further 

search 
For  my  poor  son. 

Gon.  Heavens  keep  him  from  these  beasts ! 

For  he  is,  sure,  i'  the  island. 

Alon.  Lead  away. 

Ari.    Prospero  my  lord   shall  know   what   I   have 

done :  [ Aside. 

So,  king,  go  safely  on  to  seek  thy  son.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.— Another  Part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  CALIBAN,  with  a  burden  of  ivood.     A  noise  of 
thunder  heard. 

Cal.    All  the  infections  that  the  sun  sucks  up 
From  bogs,  fens,  flats,  on  Prosper  fall,  and  make  him 
By  inch-meal  a  disease !  His  spirits  hear  me, 
And  yet  I  needs  must  curse.     But  they'll  nor  pinch, 
Fright  me  with  urchin  shows,  pitch  me  i'  the  mire, 
Nor  lead  me,  like  a  firebrand,  in  the  dark, 
Out  of  my  way,  unless  he  bid  them  ;  but 
For  every  trifle  are  they  set  upon  me : 
Sometimes  like  apes,  that  moe  1  and  chatter  at  me, 
And  after,  bite  me ;  then  like  hedgehogs,  which 
Lie  tumbling  in  my  barefoot  way,  and  mount 
Their  pricks  2  at  my  foot-fall ;  sometime  am  I 
All  wound  with  adders,  who,  with  cloven  tongues, 
Do  hiss  me  into  madness  : — Lo  !  now  !  lo  ! 


1  To  moe  is  to  make  mouths. 

2  Pricks  is  the  ancient  word  for  prickles. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  39 

Enter  TRINCULO. 

Here  comes  a  spirit  of  his ;  and  to  torment  me, 
For  bringing  wood  in  slowly :  I'll  fall  flat ; 
Perchance  he  will  not  mind  me. 

Trin.  Here's  neither  bush  nor  shrub,  to  bear  off 
any  weather  at  all,  and  another  storm  brewing :  I  hear 
it  sing  i'  the  wind :  yond'  same  black  cloud,  yond' 
huge  one,  looks  like  a  foul  bumbard J  that  would  shed 
his  liquor.  If  it  should  thunder,  as  it  did  before,  I 
know  not  where  to  hide  my  head :  yond'  same  cloud 
cannot  choose  but  fall  by  pailfuls. — What  have  we 
here  ?  a  man  or  a  fish  ?  Dead  or  alive  ?  A  fish :  he 
smells  like  a  fish ;  a  very  ancient  and  fish-like  smell ; 
a  kind  of,  not  of  the  newest,  Poor- John.  A  strange 
fish !  Were  I  in  England  now  (as  once  I  was),  and 
had  but  this  fish  painted,  not  a  holiday-fool  there  but 
would  give  a  piece  of  silver :  there  would  this  monster 
make  a  man  ; 2  any  strange  beast  there  makes  a  man  : 
when  they  will  not  give  a  doit  to  relieve  a  lame  beg 
gar,  they  will  lay  out  ten  to  see  a  dead  Indian.  Legged 
like  a  man !  and  his  fins  like  arms !  Warm,  o'  my 
troth !  I  do  now  let  loose  my  opinion,  hold  it  no 
longer ;  this  is  no  fish,  but  an  islander,  that  hath  lately 
suffered  by  a  thunderbolt.  [Thunder.'}  Alas!  the 
storm  is  come  again :  my  best  way  is  to  creep  under 
his  gaberdine ; 3  there  is  no  other  shelter  hereabout : 
Misery  acquaints  a  man  with  strange  bedfellows.  I 
will  here  shroud,  till  the  dregs  of  the  storm  be  past. 

Enter  STEPHANO,  singing ;  a  bottle  in  his  hand. 

Ste.   I  shall  no  more  to  sea,  to  sea; 

Here  shall  I  die  ashore ; — 

This  is  a  very  scurvy  tune  to  sing  at  a  man's  funeral . 
Well,  here's  my  comfort.  [Drinks. 

1  A  blackjack  of  leather  to  hold  beer,  &c. 

2  i.  e.  make  a  man's  fortune. 

3  A  gaberdine  was  a  coarse  outer  garment. 


40  TEMPEST.  [ACT  II. 

The  master,  the  swabber,  the  boatswain,  and  I, 

The  gunner,  and  his  mate, 
Loved  Mall,  Megg,  and  Marian,  and  Margery, 

But  none  of  us  cared  for  Kate : 

For  she  had  a  tongue  with  a  tang, 

Would  cry  to  a  sailor,  Go,  hang : 
She  loved  not  the  savor  of  tar  nor  of  pitch, 
Yet  a  tailor  might  scratch  her  where'er  she  did  itch  : 

Then  to  sea,  boys,  and  let  her  go  hang. 

This  is  a  scurvy  tune,  too :  But  here's  my  comfort. 

[Drinks. 

Cal.    Do  not  torment  me  :  O  ! 

Ste.  What's  the  matter  ?  Have  we  devils  here  ? 
Do  you  put  tricks  upon  us  with  savages,  and  men  of 
Inde  ?  Ha  !  I  have  not  'scaped  drowning,  to  be  afeard 
now  of  your  four  legs  ;  for  it  hath  been  said,  As  proper 
a  man  as  ever  went  on  four  legs,  cannot  make  him 
give  ground  :  and  it  shall  be  said  so  again,  while  Steph- 
ano  breathes  at  nostrils. 

Cal.    The  spirit  torments  me  :  O  ! 

Ste.  This  is  some  monster  of  the  isle,  with  four 
legs ;  who  hath  got,  as  I  take  it,  an  ague :  Where  the 
devil  should  he  learn  our  language  ?  I  will  give  him 
some  relief,  if  it  be  but  for  that :  if  I  can  recover  him, 
and  keep  him  tame,  and  get  to  Naples  with  him,  he's 
a  present  for  any  emperor  that  ever  trod  on  neat's- 
leather. 

Cal.    Do  not  torment  me,  pr'ythee  ; 
I'll  bring  my  wood  home  faster. 

Ste.  He's  in  his  fit  now ;  and  does  not  talk  after 
the  wisest.  He  shall  taste  of  my  bottle  :  if  he  hath 
never  drunk  wine  afore,  it  will  go  near  to  remove  his 
fit :  if  I  can  recover  him,  and  keep  him  tame,  I  will 
not  take  too  much *  for  him :  he  shall  pay  for  him  that 
hath  him,  and  that  soundly. 

Cal.    Thou  dost  me  yet  but  little  hurt ;  thou  wilt 

1  Any  sum,  ever  so  much ;  an  ironical  expression  implying  that  he  would 
get  as  much  as  he  could  for  him. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  41 

Anon,  I  know  it  by  thy  trembling : 
Now  Prosper  works  upon  thee. 

Ste.  Come  on  3  our  ways  ;  open  your  mouth ;  here 
is  that  which  will  give  language  to  you,  cat ;  open 
your  mouth :  this  will  shake  your  shaking,  I  can  tell 
you,  and  that  soundly :  you  cannot  tell  who's  your 
friend  :  open  your  chaps  again. 

Trin.  I  should  know  that  voice :  It  should  be- 
but  he  is  drowned ;  and  these  are  devils :  O !  de 
fend  me ! — 

Ste.  Four  legs,  and  two  voices ;  a  most  delicate 
monster !  His  forward  voice  now  is  to  speak  well  of 
his  friend  ;  his  backward  voice  is  to  utter  foul  speeches, 
and  to  detract.  If  all  the  wine  in  my  bottle  will  re 
cover  him,  I  will  help  his  ague  ;  Come, Amen !  I 

will  pour  some  in  thy  other  mouth. 

Trin.    Stephano, — 

Ste.  Doth  thy  other  mouth  call  me  ?  Mercy !  mer 
cy  !  This  is  a  devil,  and  no  monster :  I  will  leave 
him  ;  I  have  no  long  spoon.1 

Trin.  Stephano ! — If  thou  beest  Stephano,  touch 
me,  and  speak  to  me ;  for  I  am  Trinculo ; — be  not 
afeard, — thy  good  friend  Trinculo. 

Ste.  If  thou  beest  Trinculo,  come  forth ;  I'll  pull 
thee  by  the  lesser  legs :  If  any  be  Trinculo's  legs, 
these  are  they.  Thou  art  very  Trinculo,  indeed : 
How  cam'st  thou  to  be  the  siege2  of  this  moon-calf? 
Can  he  vent  Trinculos  ? 

Trin.  I  took  him  to  be  killed  with  a  thunderstroke : 
— But  art  thou  not  drowned,  Stephano?  I  hope  now, 
thou  art  not  drowned.  Is  the  storm  overblown  ?  I  hid 
me  under  the  dead  moon-calf's3  gaberdine,  for  fear  of 
the  storm  :  And  art  thou  living,  Stephano  ?  O  Steph 
ano,  two  Neapolitans  'scaped ! 

1  Shakspeare  gives  his  characters  appropriate  language,  "  They  belch 
forth  proverbs  in  their  drink,"  "  Good  liquor  will  make  a  cat  speak,"  and 
u  He  who  eats  with  the  devil  had  need  of  a  long  spoon"    The  last  is  again 
used  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  Act  iv.  Sc.  2. 

2  Siege  for  stool,  and  in  the  dirtiest  sense  of  the  word. 

3  The  best  account  of  the  moon-calf  ma.y  be  found  in  Drayton's  poem 
with  that  title. 

VOL.    I.  6 


42  TEMPEST.  [ACT  II. 

Ste.  Pr'ythee,  do  not  turn  me  about ;  my  stomach 
is  not  constant. 

CaL    These  be  fine  things,  an  if  they  be  not  sprites. 
That's  a  brave  god,  and  bears  celestial  liquor : 
I  will  kneel  to  him. 

Ste.  How  did'st  thou  'scape  ?  How  cam'st  thou 
hither  ?  swear  by  this  bottle,  how  thou  cam'st  hither. 
I  escaped  upon  a  butt  of  sack,  which  the  sailors  heaved 
overboard,  by  this  bottle  !  which  I  made  of  the  bark  of 
a  tree,  with  mine  own  hands,  since  I  was  cast  ashore. 

CaL  I'll  swear,  upon  that  bottle,  to  be  thy  true 
subject ;  for  the  liquor  is  not  earthly. 

Ste.    Here  ;  swear  then  how  thou  escap'dst. 

Trin.  Swam  ashore,  man,  like  a  duck ;  I  can  swim 
like  a  duck,  I'll  be  sworn. 

Ste.  Here,  kiss  the  book  :  Though  thou  canst  swim 
like  a  duck,  thou  art  made  like  a  goose. 

Trin.    O  Stephano,  hast  any  more  of  this  ? 

Ste.  The  whole  butt,  man ;  my  cellar  is  in  a  rock 
by  the  sea-side,  where  my  wine  is  hid.  How  now, 
moon-calf?  how  does  thine  ague? 

CaL    Hast  thou  not  dropped  from  heaven  ? J 

Ste.  Out  o'  the  moon,  I  do  assure  thee :  I  was  the 
man  in  the  moon,  when  time  was. 

CaL  I  have  seen  thee  in  her,  and  I  do  adore  thee : 
my  mistress  showed  me  thee,  and  thy  dog,  and 
thy  bush. 

Ste.  Come,  swear  to  that :  kiss  the  book :  I  will 
furnish  it  anon  with  new  contents :  swear. 

Trin.  By  this  good  light,  this  is  a  very  shallow 
monster  : — I  afeard  of  him  ? — a  very  weak  monster : — 
The  man  i'  the  moon  ? — a  most  poor  credulous  mon 
ster  : — Well  drawn,  monster,  in  good  sooth. 

CaL    I'll  show  thee  every  fertile  inch  o'  the  island ; 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  foot :  I  pr'ythee,  be  my  god. 

Trin.  By  this  light,  a  most  perfidious  and  drunken 
monster :  when  his  god's  asleep,  he'll  rob  his  bottle. 

1  The  Indians  of  the  island  of  S.  Salvador  asked  by  signs  whether 
Columbus  and  his  companions  were  not  come  down  from  heaven. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  43 

Cal.  I'll  kiss  thy  foot :  I'll  swear  myself  thy 
subject. 

Ste.    Come  on,  then  ;  down,  and  swear. 

Trin.  I  shall  laugh  myself  to  death  at  this  puppy- 
headed  monster :  A  most  scurvy  monster !  1  could 
find  in  my  heart  to  beat  him,— 

Ste.    Come,  kiss. 

Trin.  — but  that  the  poor  monster'*^  in  drink :  An 
abominable  monster ! 

Cal.    I'll  show  thee   the    best   springs ;    I'll  pluck 

thee  berries : 

I'll  fish  for  thee,  and  get  thee  wood  enough. 
A  plague  upon  the  tyrant  that  I  serve ! 
I'll  bear  him  no  more  sticks,  but  follow  thee, 
Thou  wondrous  man. 

Trin.  A  most  ridiculous  monster ;  to  make  a  won 
der  of  a  poor  drunkard. 

Cal.    I   pr'ythee,   let  me    bring   thee  where    crabs 

grow ; 

And  I  with  my  long  nails  will  dig  thee  pignuts ; 
Show  thee  a  jay's  nest,  and  instruct  thee  how 
To  snare  the  nimble  marmozet ;  I'll  bring  thee 
To  clustering  filberds,  and  sometimes  I'll  get  thee 
Young  sea-mells1  from  the  rock  :  Wilt  thou  go  with  me  ? 

Ste.  I  pr'ythee  now,  lead  the  way,  without  any 
more  talking. — Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company 
else  being  drowned,  we  will  inherit  here. — Here  ;  bear 
my  bottle.  Fellow  Trinculo,  we'll  fill  him  by  and  by 


again. 


Cal.    Farewell,  master ;  farewell,  farewell. 

[Sings  drunkenly 
Trin.    A  howling  monster ;  a  drunken  monster. 

Cal.  No  more  dams  Til  make  for  fish ; 

Nor  fetch  in  firing 

At  requiring. 
Nor  scrape  trenchering,  nor  wash  dish ; 

'Ban  'Ban,  Ca — Caliban, 
Has  a  new  master — Get  a  new  man. 

1  A  smaller  species  of  sea-gulls. 


44                                                 TEMPEST.  [ACT  111. 

Freedom,     hey-day !      hey-day,     freedom !  hey-day, 

freedom ! 

Ste.    O  brave  monster !  lead  the  way.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— Before  Prospero's  Cell. 

Enter  FERDINAND,  bearing  a  log. 

Fer.    There  be  some  sports  are  painful ;  and x  their 

labor 

Delight  in  them  sets  off:2  some  kinds  of  baseness 
Are  nobly  undergone  ;  and  most  poor  matters 
Point  to  rich  ends.     This  my  mean  task 
Would  be  as  heavy  to  me,  as  odious ;  but 
The  mistress,  which  I  serve,  quickens  what's  dead, 
And  makes  my  labors  pleasures :  O,  she  is 
Ten  times  more  gentle  than  her  father's  crabbed; 
And  he's  composed  of  harshness.     I  must  remove 
Some  thousands  of  these  logs,  and  pile  them  up, 
Upon  a  sore  injunction :  My  sweet  mistress 
Weeps  when  she  sees  me  work ;  and  says,  such  base 
ness 

Had  ne'er  like  executor.     I  forget : 
But  these  sweet  thoughts  do  even  refresh  my  labors ; 
Most  busiless,  when  I  do  it. 

Enter  MIRANDA  ;  and  PROSPERO  at  a  distance. 
Mira.  Alas,  now  !  pray  you, 

Work  not  so  hard :  I  would,  the  lightning  had 
Burnt  up  those  logs,  that  you  are  enjoined  to  pile ! 

1  Pope  changed  and  to  but  here,  without  authority :  we  must  read  and 
in  the  sense  of  and  yet. 

2  Molliter  austtrum  studio  fallentc  lalorem. — Hor.  Sat.  ii.  1.  2. 
So  in  Macbeth : 

"  The  labor  we  delight  in  physics  pain." 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  45 

Pray,  set  it  down,  and  rest  you :  when  this  bums, 
'Twill  weep  for  having  wearied  you  :  My  father 
Is  hard  at  study;  pray  now,  rest  yourself; 
He's  safe  for  these  three  hours. 

Fer.  O  most  dear  mistress, 

The  sun  will  set,  before  I  shall  discharge 
What  I  must  strive  to  do. 

Mir  a.  If  you'll  sit  down, 

I'll  bear  your  logs  the  while  :  Pray,  give  me  that ; 
I'll  carry  it  to  the  pile. 

Fer.  No,  precious  creature  ; 

I'd  rather  crack  my  sinews,  break  my  back, 
Than  you  should  such  dishonor  undergo, 
While  I  sit  lazy  by. 

Mira.  It  would  become  me 

As  well  as  it  does  you:  and  I  should  do  it 
With  much  more  ease ;  for  my  good  will  is  to  it, 
And  yours  it  is  against. 

Pro.  Poor  worm  !  thou  art  infected ; 

This  visitation  shows  it. 

Mira.  You  look  wearily. 

Fer.   No,   noble   mistress ;  'tis  fresh  morning  with 

me, 

When  you  are  by  at  night.     I  do  beseech  you, 
(Chiefly  that  I  might  set  it  in  my  prayers,) 
What  is  your  name  ? 

Mira.  Miranda : — O  my  father, 

I  have  broke  your  hest l  to  say  so ! 

Fer.  Admired  Miranda ! 

Indeed,  the  top  of  admiration  ;  worth 
What's  dearest  to  the  world !  Full  many  a  lady 
I  have  eyed  with  best  regard ;  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear :  for  several  virtues 
Have  I  liked  several  women ;  never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed,2 
And  put  it  to  the  foil :  But  you,  O  you, 

1  Behests,  commands.  2  Owned. 


46  TEMPEST.  [ACT  III. 

So  perfect,  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature's  best. 

Mir  a.  I  do  not  know 

One  of  my  sex ;  no  woman's  face  remember, 
Save,  from  my  glass,  mine  own ;  nor  have  I  seen 
More  that  I  may  call  men,  than  you,  good  friend, 
And  my  dear  father :  how  features  are  abroad, 
I  am  skilless  of;  but,  by  my  modesty, 
(The  jewel  in  my  dower,)  I  would  not  wish 
Any  companion  in  the  world  but  you ; 
Nor  can  imagination  form  a  shape, 
Besides  yourself,  to  like  of:  but  I  prattle 
Something  too  wildly,  and  my  father's  precepts 
I  therein  do  forget. 

Fer.  I  am,  in  my  condition, 

A  prince,  Miranda ;  I  do  think,  a  king ; 
(I  would,  not  so !)  and  would  no  more  endure 
This  wooden  slavery,  than  to  suffer 

The    flesh-fly  blow  my  mouth. Hear   my   soul 

speak ; — 

The  very  instant  that  1  saw  you,  did 
My  heart  fly  to  your  service  ;  there  resides, 
To  make  me  slave  to  it ;  and,  for  your  sake, 
Am  I  this  patient  log-man. 

Mir  a.  Do  you  love  me  ? 

Fer.    O  heaven,  O  earth,  bear  witness  to  this  sound, 
And  crown  what  I  profess  with  kind  event, 
If  I  speak  true  ;  if  hollowly,  invert 
What  best  is  boded  me  to  mischief!     1, 
Beyond  all  limit  of  what  else  *  i'  the  world, 
Do  love,  prize,  honor  you. 

Mir  a.  I  am  a  fool, 

To  weep  at  what  I  am  glad  of.2 

1  What  else,  for  whatsoever  else. 

2  Steevens  observes  justly,  that  this  is  one  of  those  touches  of  nature 
which  distinguish  Shakspeare  from  all  other  writers.     There  is  a  kindred 
thought  in  Romeo  and  Juliet: 

"  Back,  foolish  tears,  back  to  your  native  spring ! 
Your  tributary  drops  belong  to  wo, 
Which  you  mistaking  offer  up  to  joy." 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  47 

Pro.  Fair  encounter 

Of  two  most  rare  affections  !     Heavens  rain  grace 
On  that  which  breeds  between  them ! 

Per.  Wherefore  weep  you  ? 

Mira.    At  mine  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I  desire  to  give  ;  and  much  less  take 
What  I  shall  die  to  want :  But  this  is  trifling ; 
And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 
The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.     Hence,  bashful  cunning ! 
And  prompt  me,  plain  and  holy  innocence ! 
I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid:  to  be  your  fellow1 
You  may  deny  me ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant, 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Fer.  My  mistress,  dearest, 

And  I  thus  humble  ever. 

Mira.  My  husband  then  ? 

Fer.   Ay,  with  a  heart  as  willing 
As  bondage  e'er  of  freedom :  here's  my  hand. 

Mira.    And   mine,  with   my  heart  in't:    and   now 

farewell, 
Till  half  an  hour  hence. 

Fer.  A  thousand  !  thousand ! 

[Exeunt  FER.  and  MIR 

Pro.    So  glad  of  this  as  they,  I  cannot  be, 
Who  are  surprised  with  all ;  but  my  rejoicing 
At  nothing  can  be  more.     I'll  to  my  book ; 
For  yet,  ere  supper  time,  must  I  perform 
Much  business  appertaining.  [Exit 


SCENE  II.— Another  Part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  STEPHANO  and  TRINCULO  ;  CALIBAN  following 
with  a  bottle. 

Ste.  Tell  not  me ; — when  the  butt  is  out,  we  will 
drink  water ;  not  a  drop  before :  therefore  bear  up, 
and  board  'em :  Servant-monster,  drink  to  me. 

1  i.  e.  your  companion. 


48  TEMPEST.  [ACT  111. 

Tdn.  Servant-monster?  the  folly  of  this  island! 
They  say,  there's  but  five  upon  this  isle :  we  are  three 
of  them ;  if  the  other  two  be  brained  like  us,  the  state 
totters. 

Ste.  Drink,  servant-monster,  when  I  bid  thee ;  thy 
eyes  are  almost  set  in  thy  head. 

Trin.  Where  should  they  be  set  else  ?  he  were  a 
brave  monster  indeed,  if  they  were  set  in  his  tail. 

Ste.  My  man-monster  hath  drowned  his  tongue  in 
sack  :  for  my  part,  the  sea  cannot  drown  me  :  I  swam, 
ere  I  could  recover  the  shore,  five-and-thirty  leagues, 
off  and  on,  by  this  light. — Thou  shalt  be  my  lieuten 
ant,  monster,  or  my  standard. 

Trin.    Your  lieutenant,  if  you  list ;  he's  no  standard. 

Ste.   We'll  not  run,  monsieur  monster. 

Trin.  Nor  go  neither :  but  you'll  lie,  like  dogs ; 
and  yet  say  nothing  neither. 

Ste.  Moon-calf,  speak  once  in  thy  life,  if  thou  beest 
a  good  moon-calf. 

Cal.  How  does  thy  honor  ?  Let  me  lick  thy  shoe  : 
I'll  not  serve  him,  he  is  not  valiant. 

Trin.  Thou  liest,  most  ignorant  monster ;  I  am  in 
case  to  justle  a  constable :  Why,  thou  deboshed 1  fish 
thou,  was  there  ever  man  a  coward,  that  hath  drunk 
so  much  sack  as  I  to-day  ?  Wilt  thou  tell  a  monstrous 
lie,  being  but  half  a  fish,  and  half  a  monster  ? 

Cal.  Lo,  how  he  mocks  me !  wilt  thou  let  him, 
my  lord  ? 

Trin.  Lord,  quoth  he ! — that  a  monster  should  be 
such  a  natural ! 

Cal.    Lo,  lo,  again !  bite  him  to  death,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  your  head  ; 

if  you  prove  a  mutineer,  the  next  tree The  poor 

monster's  my  subject,  and  he  shall  not  suffer  in 
dignity. 

Cal.  I  thank  my  noble  lord.  Wilt  thou  be  pleased 
to  hearken  once  again  to  the  suit  I  made  thee  ? 

1  Deboshed.  This  is  the  old  orthography  of  debauched;  following  the 
sound  of  the  French  original.  In  altering  the  spelling  we  have  departed 
from  the  proper  pronunciation  of  the  word. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  49 

Ste.  Marry  will  I:  kneel,  and  repeat  it;  I  will 
stand,  and  so  shall  Trinculo. 

Enter  ARIEL,  invisible. 

Cal.  As  I  told  thee  before,  I  am  subject  to  a  tyrant ; 
a  sorcerer,  that  by  his  cunning  hath  cheated  me  of  this 
island. 

Ari.    Thou  liest. 

Cal.    Thou  liest,  thou  jesting  monkey,  thou ! 
I  would,  my  valiant  master  would  destroy  thee  : 
I  do  not  lie. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  if  you  trouble  him  any  more  in  his 
tale,  by  this  hand,  I  will  supplant  some  of  your  teeth 

Trin.   Why,  I  said  nothing. 

Ste.   Mum  then,  and  no  more. — [To  CALIBAN.] 
Proceed. 

Cal.    I  say,  by  sorcery  he  got  this  isle : 
1'rom  me  he  got  it.     If  thy  greatness  will 
Revenge  it  on  him — for,  I  know,  thou  dar'st ; 
But  this  thing  dare  not — 

Ste.    That's  most  certain. 

Cal.    Thou  shalt  be  lord  of  it,  and  I'll  serve  thee. 

Ste.  How,  now,  shall  this  be  compassed  ?  Canst 
thou  bring  me  to  the  party  ? 

Cal.   Yea,  yea,  my  lord ;  I'll  yield  him  thee  asleep, 
Where  thou  may'st  knock  a  nail  into  his  head. 

Ari.    Thou  liest,  thou  canst  not. 

Cal.   What  a  pied 1  ninny's  this  ?      Thou   scurvy 

patch ! — 

I  do  beseech  thy  greatness,  give  him  blows, 
And  take  his  bottle  from  him :  when  that's  gone, 
He  shall  drink  nought  but  brine  ;  for  I'll  not  show  him 
Where  the  quick  freshes  2  are. 

Ste.  Trinculo,  run  into  no  further  danger :  interrupt 
the  monster  one  word  further,  and,  by  this  hand,  I'll 
turn  my  mercy  out  of  doors,  and  make  a  stock-fish 
of  thee. 

1  Alluding  to  Trinculo's  party-colored  dress :  he  was  a  licensed  fool  01 
jester. 

2  Living  springs. 

VOL.  I.  7 


50  TEMPEST.  [ACT  III. 

Trin.   Why,  what  did  I  ?     I  did  nothing ;    I'll  go 
further  off. 

Ste.    Didst  thou  not  say,  he  lied  ? 

Ari.    Thou  liest. 

Ste.    Do  I  so  ?  take  thou  that.  [Strikes  him.'] 

As  you  like  this,  give  me  the  lie  another  time. 

Trin.    I  did  not  give  the  lie : — Out  o'  your  wits, 

and  hearing  too  ? A  pox  o'  your  bottle !  this  can 

sack,  and  drinking  do. — A  murrain  on  your  monster, 
and  the  devil  take  your  fingers ! 

Cal.    Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Ste.    Now,  forward  with  your  tale.     Pr'ythee  stand 
further  off. 

Cal.    Beat  him  enough  :  after  a  little  time, 
I'll  beat  him  too. 

Ste.  Stand  further. — Come   proceed. 

Cal.    Why,  as  I  told  thee,  'tis  a  custom  with  him 
I'  the  afternoon  to  sleep :  there  thou  may'jt  brain  him, 
Having  first  seized  his  books  ;  or  with  a  log 
Batter  his  skull,  or  paunch  him  with  a  stake, 
Or  cut  his  wezand  J  with  thy  knife.     Remember, 
First,  to  possess  his  books ;  for  without  them 
He's  but  a  sot,  as  I  am,  nor  hath  not 
One  spirit  to  command :  They  all  do  hate  him 
As  rootedly  as  I :  Burn  but  his  books ; 
He  has  brave  utensils,  (for  so  he  calls  them,) 
Which,  when  he  has  a  house,  he'll  deck  withal. 
And  that  most  deeply  to  consider,  is 
The  beauty  of  his  daughter ;  he  himself 
Calls  her  a  nonpareil :  I  never  saw  a  woman, 
But  only  Sycorax  my  dam,  and  she ; 
But  she  as  far  surpasseth  Sycorax, 
As  great'st  does  least. 

Ste.  Is  it  so  brave  a  lass  ? 

Cal.    Ay,  lord ;  she  will  be  come  thy  bed,  I  war 
rant, 
And  bring  thee  forth  brave  brood. 

Ste.    Monster,   I   will  kill   this  man :   his  daughter 

1  Wezand,  i.  e.  throat  or  windpipe. 


SC.  II.]  TEMPEST.  51 

and  I  will  be  king  and  queen :  (save  our  graces !)  and 
Trinculo  and  thyself  shall  be  viceroys : — Dost  thou 
like  the  plot,  Trinculo  ? 

Trin.    Excellent. 

Ste.    Give  me  thy  hand ;  1  am  sorry  I  beat  thee : 
but,  while  thou  livest,  keep  a  good  tongue  in  thy  head. 

CaL    Within  this  half  hour  will  he  be  asleep  ; 
Wilt  thou  destroy  him  then  ? 

Ste.  Ay,  on  mine  honor. 

Ari.    This  will  I  tell  my  master. 

CaL    Thou  mak'st  me  merry  :  I  am  full  of  pleasure  ; 
Let  us  be  jocund  :  Will  you  troll  the  catch 
You  taught  me  but  while-ere  ? 

Ste.    At  thy  request,  monster,  I  will  do  reason,  any 
reason  :  Come  on,  Trinculo,  let  us  sing.  [Sings. 

Flout   'em,  and  skout  'em ;   and  skout  'em,  and 

flout  'em  : 
Thought  is  free. 

CaL    That's  not  the  tune. 

[ARIEL  plays  the  tune  on  a  tabor  and  pipe. 

Ste.    What  is  this  same  ? 

Trin.    This  is  the  tune  of  our  catch,  played  by  the 
picture  of  No-body.1 

Ste.    If  thou  beest  a  man,  show  thyself  in  thy  like 
ness  :  if  thou  beest  a  devil,  take't  as  thou  list. 

Trin.    O,  forgive  me  my  sins ! 

Ste.    He  that  dies,  pays  all  debts :  I  defy  thee : — 
Mercy  upon  us ! 

CaL    Art  thou  afeard  ? 2 

Ste.    No,  monster,  not  I. 

CaL    Be  not  afeard  ;  the  isle  is  full  of  noises, 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not. 
Sometimes  a  thousand  twangling  instruments 

O          O 

Will  hum  about  mine  ears ;  and  sometimes  voices, 

1  The  picture  of  No-body  was  a  common  sign.     There  is  also  a  wood 
cut  prefixed  to  an  old  play  of  No-body  and  Some-body,  which  represents 
this  notable  person. 

2  To  affray  or  make  afraid. 


52  TEMPEST.  [ACT  III. 

That,  if  I  then  had  waked  after  long  sleep, 

Will  make  me  sleep  again :  and  then,  in  dreaming, 

The  clouds,  methought,  would  open,  and  show  riches 

Ready  to  drop  upon  me ;  that,  when  I  waked, 

I  cried  to  dream  again. 

Ste.    This  will  prove  a  brave  kingdom  to  me,  where 
I  shall  have  my  music  for  nothing. 

CaL    When  Prospero  is  destroyed. 

Ste.    That  shall  be   by  and  by:    I  remember  the 
story. 

Trin.    The  sound  is  going  away :   let's  follow  it, 
and,  after,  do  our  work. 

Ste.    Lead,    monster ;     we'll   follow. — I    would,    I 
could  see  this  laborer : 1  he  lays  it  on. 

Trin.    Wilt  come  ?     I'll  follow,  Stephano.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.— Another  Part  of  the  Island. 

Enter  ALONZO,  SEBASTIAN,  ANTONIO,  GONZALO, 
ADRIAN,  FRANCISCO,  and  others. 

Gon.    By'r  lakin,2  I  can  go  no  further,  sir  ; 
My  old  bones  ache  ;  here's  a  maze  trod,  indeed, 
Through  forth-rights,  and  meanders  !  by  your  patience, 
I  needs  must  rest  me. 

Alon.  Old  lord,  I  cannot  blame  thee, 

Who  am  myself  attached  with  weariness, 
To  the  dulling  of  my  spirits  :  sit  down,  and  rest. 
Even  here  I  will  put  off  my  hope,  and  keep  it 
No  longer  for  my  flatterer :  he  is  drowned, 

i  "You  shall  heare  in  the  ayre  the  sound  of  tabors  and  other  instruments, 
to  put  the  trauellers  in  feare,  &c.  by  evill  spirites  that  make  these  soundes, 
and  also  do  call  diuerse  of  the  trauellers  by  their  names,  &c." — Trauels 
of  Marcus  Paulus,  by  John  Frampton,  4fo.  1579.  To  some  of  these  cir 
cumstances  Milton  also  alludes : 

" calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire  ; 

And  aery  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses." 

5  Bifr  lakin  is  a  contraction  of  By  our  ladykin,  the  diminutive  of  our 
lady. 


SC.  III.]  TEMPEST.  SJJ 

Whom  thus  we  stray  to  find ;  and  the  sea  mocks 
Our  frustrate  search  on  land  :  Well,  let  him  go. 

Ant.    I  am  right  glad  that  he's  so  out  of  hope. 

[Aside  to  SEBASTIAN. 

Do  not,  for  one  repulse,  forego  the  purpose 
That  you  resolved  to  effect. 

Seb.  The  next  advantage 

O 

Will  we  take  thoroughly. 

Ant.  Let  it  be  to-night : 

For,  now  they  are  oppressed  with  travel,  they 
Will  not,  nor  cannot,  use  such  vigilance, 
As  when  they  are  fresh. 

Seb.  I  say,  to-night :  no  more. 

Solemn  and  strange  music;  and  PROSPERO  above,  in- 
visible.  Enter  several  strange  Shapes,  bringing  in  a 
banquet ;  they  dance  about  it  with  gentle  actions  of 
salutation ;  and  inviting  the  king,  &c.  to  eat,  they 
depart. 

Alon.   What   harmony  is   this?    my  good  friends, 
hark! 

Gon.   Marvellous  sweet  music ! 

Alon.    Give  us  kind  keepers,  heavens !     What  were 
these  ? 

Seb.    A  living  drollery : J  Now  I  will  believe 
That  there  are  unicorns ;  that,  in  Arabia 
There  is  one  tree,  the  phoenix'  throne ; 2  one  phoenix 
At  this  hour  reigning  there. 

Ant.  I'll  believe  both ; 

And  what  does  else  want  credit,  come  to  me, 
And  I'll  be  sworn  'tis  true :  Travellers  ne'er  did  lie, 
Though  fools  at  home  condemn  them. 

1  Shows,  called  Drolleries,  were  in   Shakspeare's  time  performed  by 
puppets  only.     From  these  our  modern  drolls,  exhibited  at  fairs,  &c.,  took 
their  name.     "  A  living  drollery  "  is  therefore  a  drollery  not  by  wooden 
but  by  living-  personages. 

2  "I  myself  have  heard  strannge  things  of  this  kind  of  tree  ;  namely  in 
regard  of  the  bird  Phoenix,  which  is  supposed  to  have  taken  that  name  of  this 
date-tree  (called  in  Greek  <poivi£) ;  for  it  was  assured  unto  me,  that  the  said 
bird  died  with  that  tree,  and  revived  of  itselfe  as  the  tree  sprung  againe." 
—Holland's  Translation  of  Pliny,  B.  xiii.  C.  4. 


54  TEMPEST.  [ACT  III. 

Gon.  If  in  Naples 

I  should  report  this  now,  would  they  believe  me  ? 
If  I  should  say  I  saw  such  islanders, 
(For,  certes,1  these  are  people  of  the  island,) 
Who,  though  they  are  of  monstrous  shape,  yet  note, 
Their  manners  are  more  gentle,  kind,  than  of 
Our  human  generation  you  shall  find 
Many,  nay,  almost  any. 

Pro.  Honest  lord, 

Thou  hast  said  well ;  for  some  of  you  there  present 
Are  worse  than  devils.  [Aside. 

Alon.  I  cannot  too  much  muse,2 

Such  shapes,  such  gesture,  and  such  sound,  expressing 
(Although  they  want  the  use  of  tongue)  a  kind 
Of  excellent  dumb  discourse. 

Pro.  Praise  in  departing.3 

[Aside. 

Fran.    They  vanished  strangely. 

Seb.  No  matter,  since 

They  have    left   their  viands   behind;    for   we    have 

stomachs. — 
WilPt  please  you  taste  of  what  is  here  ? 

Alon.  Not  I. 

Gon.    Faith,    sir,    you   need    not   fear :    When  we 

were  boys, 

Who  would  believe  that  there  were  mountaineers, 
Dew-lapped  like    bulls,   whose    throats    had    hanging 

at  them 

Wallets  of  flesh  ?  or  that  there  were  such  men, 
Whose  heads  stood  in  their  breasts  ?  which  now  we 

find, 

Each  putter-out  on  five  for  one,4  will  bring  us 
Good  warrant  of. 

1  Certainly.  2  Wonder. 

3  " Praise  in   departing"  is  a   proverbial   phrase    signifying,  Do   not 
praise  your  entertainment  too  soon,  lest  you  should  have  reason  to  retract 
your  commendation. 

4  "  Each  putter-out  on  five  for  one,"  i.  e.  each  traveller :  it  appears  to 
have  been  the  custom  to  place  out  a  sum  of  money  upon  going  abroad,  to 
be  returned  with  enormous  interest  if  the  party  returned  safe— a  kind  of 


insurance  of  a  gambling  nature. 


SC.  III.]  TEMPEST.  55 

Alon.  I  will  stand  to,  and  feed, 

Although  my  last :  no  matter,  since  I  feel 
The  best  is  past : — Brother,  my  lord  the  duke, 
Stand  to,  and  do  as  we. 

Thunder  and  lightning.  Enter  ARIEL  like  a  Harpy ; 
claps  his  wings  upon  the  table,  and,  by  quaint  device, 
the  banquet  vanishes. 

Ari.    You  are  three  men  of  sin,  whom  destiny 
(That  hath  to  instrument  this  lower  world, 
And  what  is  in't)  the  never-surfeited  sea 
Hath  caused  to  belch  up ;  and  on  this  island, 
Where  man  doth  not  inhabit ;  you  'mongst  men 
Being  most  unfit  to  live.     I  have  made  you  mad : 

[Seeing  ALON.  SEE.  &c.  draw  their  swords. 
And  even  with  such  like  valor,  men  hang  and  drown 
Their  proper  selves.     You  fools  !  I  and  my  fellows 
Are  ministers  of  fate  ;  the  elements 
Of  whom  your  swords  are  tempered,  may  as  well 
Wound  the  loud  winds,  or  with  bemocked-at  stabs 
Kill  the  still-closing  waters,  as  diminish 
One  dowle  *  that's  in  my  plume  ;  my  fellow  ministers 
Are  like  invulnerable  :  if  you  could  hurt, 
Your  swords  are  now  too  massy  for  your  strengths, 
And  will  not  be  uplifted :  But,  remember, 
(For  that's  my  business  to  you,)  that  you  three 
From  Milan  did  supplant  good  Prospero ; 
Exposed  unto  the  sea,  which  hath  requit  it, 
Him,  and  his  innocent  child :  for  which  foul  deed 
The  powers,  delaying,  not  forgetting,  have 
Incensed  the  seas  and  shores,  yea,  all  the  creatures, 
Against  your  peace  :  Thee,  of  thy  son,  Alonzo, 
They  have  bereft,  and  do  pronounce  by  me, 
Lingering  perdition  (worse  than  any  death 
Can  be  at  once)  shall  step  by  step  attend 
You,  and  your  ways ;  whose  wraths  to  guard  you  from 
(Which  here,  in  this  most  desolate  isle,  else  falls 

l  Bailey,  in  his  Dictionary,  says  that  dowle  is  a  feather,  or  rather  the 
single  particles  of  the  down.  Coles,  in  his  Latin  Dictionary,  1679,  inter 
prets  young  dowle  by  lanugo. 


56  TEMPEST.  [ACT  III. 

Upon  jour  heads)  is  nothing  but  heart's  sorrow, 
And  a  clear *  life  ensuing. 

He  vanishes  in  thunder :  then,  to  soft  music,  enter  the 
Shapes  again,  and  dance  with  mops  and  mowes,  and 
carry  out  the  table. 

Pro.    [Aside.]     Bravely   the    figure    of  this   harpy 

hast  thou 

Performed,  my  Ariel ;  a  grace  it  had,  devouring : 
Of  my  instruction  hast  thou  nothing  'bated, 
In  what  thou  hadst  to  say :  so,  with  good  life,  2 
And  observation  strange,  my  meaner  ministers 
Their  several  kinds  have  done :  my  high  charms  work, 
And  these,  mine  enemies,  are  all  knit  up 
In  their  distractions :  they  now  are  in  my  power ; 
And  in  these  fits  I  leave  them,  whilst  I  visit 
Young  Ferdinand  (whom  they  suppose  is  drowned) 
And  his  and  my  loved  darling. 

[Exit  PnospEROjfrom  above. 

Gon.    I'    the    name    o'    something    holy,    sir,    why 

stand  you 
In  this  strange  stare  ? 

Alon.  O,  it  is  monstrous  !  monstrous ! 

Methought,  the  billows  spoke,  and  told  me  of  it ; 
The  winds  did  sing  it  to  me ;  and  the  thunder, 
That  deep  and  dreadful  organ-pipe,  pronounced 
The  name  of  Prosper  ;  it  did  bass  my  trespass.3 
Therefore  my  son  i'  the  ooze  is  bedded ;  and 
I'll  seek  him  deeper  than  e'er  plummet  sounded, 
And  with  him  there  lie  mudded.  [Exit. 

Seb.  But  one  fiend  at  a  time, 

I'll  fight  their  legions  o'er. 

Ant.  I'll  be  thy  second. 

[Exeunt  SEB.  and  ANT. 

Gon.    All  three  of  them  are  desperate ;  their  great 

guilt, 
Like  poison  given  to  work  a  great  time  after, 

1  A  pure,  blameless  life. 

2  With  good  life,  i.  e.  with  the  full  bent  and  energy  of  mind. 

3  The  deep  pipe  told  it  me  in  a  rough,  bass  sound. 


ACT  IV.]  TEMPEST.  57 

Now  'gins  to  bite  the  spirits :  I  do  beseech  you 
Thai  are  of  suppler  joints,  follow  them  swiftly, 
And  hinder  them  from  what  this  ecstasy l 
May  now  provoke  them  to. 

Adr.  Follow,  I  pray  you 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  L— Before  Prospero's  Cell. 
Enter  PROSPERO,  FERDINAND,  and  MIRANDA. 

Pro.    If  I  have  too  austerely  punished  you, 
Your  compensation  makes  amends ;  for  I 
Have  given  you  here  a  thread  of  mine  own  life, 
Or  that  for  which  I  live ;  whom  once  again 
I  tender  to  thy  hand :  all  thy  vexations 
Were  but  my  trials  of  thy  love,  and  thou 
Hast  strangely  stood  the  test :  here,  afore  Heaven, 
I  ratify  this  my  rich  gift.     O  Ferdinand, 
Do  not  smile  at  me,  that  I  boast  her  off; 
For  thou  shalt  find  she  will  outstrip  all  praise, 
And  make  it  halt  behind  her. 

Fer.  I  do  believe  it, 

Against  an  oracle. 

Pro.    Then,  as  my  gift,  and  thine  own  acquisition 
Worthily  purchased,  take  my  daughter :  But 
If  thou  dost  break  her  virgin  knot  before 
All  sanctimonious  ceremonies  may 
With  full  and  holy  rite  be  ministered, 
No  sweet  aspersion 2  shall  the  heavens  let  fall 
To  make  this  contract  grow ;  but  barren  hate, 
Sour-eyed  disdain,  and  discord,  shall  bestrew 
The  union  of  your  bed  with  weeds  so  loathely, 
That  you  shall  hate  it  both:  therefore,  take  heed, 

1  Shakspeare  uses  ecstasy  for  any  temporary  alienation  of  mind,  a  fit,  or 
madness. 

2  Aspersion  is  here  used  in  its  primitive  sense  of  sprinkling. 

VOL.   I.  8 


58  TEMPEST.  [ACT  IV. 

As  Hymen's  lamps  shall  light  you. 

Fer.  As  I  hope 

For  quiet  days,  fair  issue,  and  long  life, 
With  such  love  as  'tis  now ;  the  murkiest  den, 
The  most  opportune  place,  the  strong'st  suggestion 1 
Our  worser  Genius  can,  shall  never  melt 
Mine  honor  into  lust ;  to  take  away 
The  edge  of  that  day's  celebration, 
When  I  shall  think,  or  Phoebus'  steeds  are  foundered, 
Or  night  kept  chained  below. 

Pro.  Fairly  spoke ; 

Sit  then,  and  talk  with  her ;  she  is  thine  own. — 
What,  Ariel ;  my  industrious  servant  Ariel ! 

Enter  ARIEL. 

Ari.    What  would  my  potent  master  ?  here  I  am. 

Pro.    Thou  and  thy  meaner  fellows  your  last  service 
Did  worthily  perform ;  and  I  must  use  you 
In  such  another  trick :  go,  bring  the  rabble, 
O'er  whom  I  give  thee  power,  here,  to  this  place : 
Incite  them  to  quick  motion ;  for  I  must 
Bestow  upon  the  eyes  of  this  young  couple 
Some  vanity  2  of  mine  art ;  it  is  my  promise, 
And  they  expect  it  from  me. 

Ari.  Presently  ? 

Pro.    Ay,  with  a  twink* 

Ari.    Before  you  can  say,  Come,  and  go, 
And  breathe  twice  ;  and  cry,  So,  so ; 
Each  one,  tripping  on  his  toe, 
Will  be  here  with  mop  and  mowe : 
Do  you  love  me,  master  ?  no. 

Pro.  Dearly,  my  delicate  Ariel :  Do  not  approach, 
Till  thou  dost  hear  me  call. 

Ari.  Well  I  conceive.     [Exit 

Pro.    Look,  thou  be  true  ;  do  not  give  dalliance 
Too  much  the  rein;  the  strongest  oaths  are  straw 
To  the  fire  i'  the  blood :  be  more  abstemious, 
Or  else,  good  night,  your  vow ! 

1  Temptation  or  wicked  prompting. 

2  "Some  vanity  of  mine  art"  is  some  illusion. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  59 

Fer.  I  warrant  you,  sir ; 

The  white -cold  virgin  snow  upon  my  heart 
Abates  the  ardor  of  my  liver. 

Pro.  Well.— 

Now  come,  my  Ariel ;  bring  a  corollary,1 
Rather  than  want  a  spirit ;  appear,  and  pertly. — 
No  tongue  ;   all  eyes  ;  be  silent.  [Soft  music. 

A  Masque.     Enter  IRIS. 

Iris.    Ceres,  most  bounteous  lady,  thy  rich  leas 
Of  wheat,  rye,  barley,  vetches,  oats,  and  peas  ; 
Thy  turfy  mountains,  where  live  nibbling  sheep, 
And  flat  meads  thatched  with  stover,2  them  to  keep ; 
Thy  banks  with  peonied  and  lilied  brims,3 
Which  spongy  April  at  thy  hest  betrims, 
To  make  cold  nymphs  chaste  crowns ;    and  thy  broom 

groves, 

Whose  shadow  the  dismissed  bachelor  loves, 
Being  lass-lorn  ;4  thy  pole-clipt  vineyard  ; 
And  thy  sea-marge,  sterile,  and  rocky-hard, 
Where  thou  thyself  dost  air :  The  queen  o'  the  sky, 
Whose  watery  arch,  and  messenger,  am  I, 
Bids  thee  leave  these  ;  and  with  her  sovereign  grace, 
Here  on  this  grass-plot,  in  this  very  place, 
To  come  and  sport :  her  peacocks  fly  amain  ; 
Approach,  rich  Ceres,  her  to  entertain. 

Enter  CERES. 

Cer.    Hail,  many-colored  messenger,  that  ne'er 
Dost  disobey  the  wife  of  Jupiter ; 
Who,  with  thy  saffron  wings,  upon  my  flowers 
Diffusest  honey-drops,  refreshing  showers : 
And  writh  each  end  of  thy  blue  bow  dost  crown 
My  bosky5  acres,  and  my  unshrubbed  down. 

1  That  is,  bring  more  than  are  sufficient.     "  Corollary,  the  addition  or 
vantage  above  measure,  an  overplus  or  surplusage" — Blount. 

2  Stover  is  fodder  for  cattle,  as  hay,  straw,  and  the  like :  estovers  is  the 
old  law  term :  it  is  from  estouvier,  old  French. 

3  The  old  editions  read  Pioned  and  Twilled  brims. 

4  Forsaken  by  his  lass. 

5  Bosky  acres  are  woody  acres,  fields  intersected  by  luxuriant  hedge 
rows  and  copses. 


60  TEMPEST.  [ACT  IV 

Rich  scarf  to  my  proud  earth :  Why  hath  thy  queen 
Summoned  me  hither,  to  this  short-grassed  green  ? 

Iris.    A  contract  of  true  love  to  celebrate ; 
And  some  donation  freely  to  estate 
On  the  blessed  lovers. 

Cer.  Tell  me,  heavenly  bow, 

If  Venus,  or  her  son,  as  thou  dost  know, 
Do  now  attend  the  queen  ?  since  they  did  plot 
The  means,  that  dusky  Dis  my  daughter  got, 
Her  and  her  blind  boy's  scandaled  company 
I  have  forsworn. 

Iris.  Of  her  society 

Be  not  afraid  :  1  met  her  deity 
Cutting  the  clouds  towards  Paphos ;  and  her  son 
Dove-drawn  with  her  :  here  thought  they  to  have  done 
Some  wanton  charm  upon  this  man  and  maid, 
Whose  vows  are,  that  no  bed  rite  shall  be  paid 
Till  Hymen's  torch  be  lighted  :  but  in  vain  ; 
Mars's  hot  minion  is  returned  again  ; 
Her  waspish-headed  son  has  broke  his  arrows, 
Swears  he  will  shoot  no  more,  but  play  with  sparrows, 
And  be  a  boy  right  out. 

Cer.  Highest  queen  of  state, 

Great  Juno  comes ;  I  know  her  by  her  gait. 

Enter  JUNO. 

Juno.    How  does  my  bounteous  sister  ?     Go  with 

me, 

To  bless  this  twain,  that  they  may  prosperous  be, 
And  honied  in  their  issue. 

SONG. 
Jun.    Honor,  riches,  marriage -blessing, 

Long  continuance,  and  increasing, 

Hourly  joys  be  still  upon  you ! 

Juno  sings  her  blessings  on  you 
Cer.    Earth's  increase,  and  foison l  plenty ; 

Barns  and  garners  never  empty  ; 

1  Foison  is  abundance,  particularly  of  harvest  corn. 


SC.  l.j  TEMPEST.  61 

Vines,  with  clustering  bunches  growing ; 
Plants,  with  goodly  burden  bowing  ; 
Spring  come  to  you,  at  the  farthest, 
In  the  very  end  of  harvest! 
Scarcity  and  want  shall  shun  you ; 
Ceres'  blessing  so  is  on  you. 

Fer.    This  is  a  most  majestic  vision,  and 
Harmonious  charmingly : 1  May  I  be  bold 

O   J  J 

To  think  these  spirits  ? 

Pro.  Spirits,  which  by  mine  art 

1  have  from  their  confines  called  to  enact 
My  present  fancies. 

Fer.  Let  me  live  here  ever ; 

So  rare  a  wondered  father,2  and  a  wife, 
Make  this  place  Paradise. 

[JuNo  and  CERES  whisper,  and  send  IRIS  on 
employment. 

Pro.  Sweet  now,  silence  : 

Juno  and  Ceres  whisper  seriously ; 
There's  something  else  to  do :  hush,  and  be  mute, 
Or  else  our  spell  is  marred. 

Iris.    You  nymphs,  called  Naiads,  of  the  wandering 

brooks, 

With  your  sedged  crowns,  and  ever  harmless  looks, 
Leave  your  crisp 3  channels,  and  on  this  green  land 
Answer  your  summons  ;  Juno  does  command  : 
Come,  temperate  nymphs,  and  help  to  celebrate 
A  contract  of  true  love  ;  be  not  too  late. 

Enter  certain  Nymphs. 

You  sun-burned  sicklemen,  of  August  weary, 
Come  hither  from  the  furrow,  and  be  merry  ; 
Make  holy-day :  your  rye -straw  hats  put  on, 
And  these  fresh  nymphs  encounter  every  one 
In  country  footing. 

1  For  charmingly  harmonious. 

2  "  So  rare  a  wondered  father,"  is  a  father  able  to  produce  such  wonders. 

3  'Crisp  channels ;  i.  e.  curled,  from  the  curl  raised  by  a  breeze  on  the 
surface  of  the  water.     So  in  1  K.  Hen.  IV.  Act.  i.  Sc.  3. 

" — Hid  his  crisp  head  in  the  hollow  bank." 


62  TEMPEST.  [ACT  IV. 

Enter  certain  Reapers,  properly  habited :  they  join  with 
the  Nymphs  in  a  graceful  dance ;  towards  the  end 
whereof  PROSPERO  starts  suddenly,  and  speaks ;  after 
which,  to  a  strange,  hollow,  and  confused  noise,  they 
heavily  vanish. 

Pro.    [Aside.]    I  had  forgot  that  foul  conspiracy 
Of  the  beast  Caliban,  and  his  confederates, 
Against  my  life  ;  the  minute  of  their  plot 
Is    almost   come. — [To   the   Spirits.']     Well  done; — 
avoid  ; — no  more. 

Per.    This  is  strange  :  your  father's  in  some  passion 
That  works  him  strongly. 

Mira.  Never  till  this  day, 

Saw  I  him  touched  with  anger  so  distempered. 

Pro.    \ou  do  look,  my  son,  in  a  moved  sort, 
As  if  you  were  dismayed  :  be  cheerful,  sir : 
Our  revels  now  are  ended :  these  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded,1 
Leave  not  a  rack 2  behind :  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. — Sir,  I  am  vexed ; 
Bear  with  my  weakness ;  my  old  brain  is  troubled. 
Be  not  disturbed  with  my  infirmity : 
If  you  be  pleased,  retire  into  my  cell, 
And  there  repose  ;  a  turn  or  two  I'll  walk, 
To  still  my  beating  mind. 

Fer.  Mira.  We  wish  you  peace. 

[Exeunt. 

Pro.    Come  with  a  thought : — I  thank  you  : — Ariel, 
come. 

1  Faded,  i.  e.  vanished. 

2  A  vapor,  an  exhalation.     See  Mr.  Home  Tooke's  admirable  observa 
tion  on  this  passage  in  the  Diversions  of  Purley,  Vol.  ii.  p.  388,  4to  ed. 


SC.  1.1  TEMPEST.  63 

Enter  ARIEL. 

Ari.   Thy  thoughts  I  cleave  to  :  What's  thy  pleasure  ? 

Pro.    Spirit, 
We  must  prepare  to  meet    with  Caliban. 

Ari.    Ay,  my  commander :  when  I  presented  Ceres, 
I  thought  to  have  told  thee  of  it ;  but  I  feared, 
Lest  I  might  anger  thee. 

Pro.    Say  again,    where    didst    thou    leave    these 
varlets  ? 

Ari .    I  told  you,  sir,  they  were  red-hot  with  drinking ; 
So  full  of  valor,  that  they  smote  the  air 
For  breathing  in  their  faces  ;  beat  the  ground 
For  kissing  of  their  feet:  yet  always  bending 
Towards  their  project :  then  I  beat  my  tabor, 
At  which,  like  unbacked  colts,  they  pricked  their  ears, 
Advanced  their  eye-lids,  lifted  up  their  noses, 
As  they  smelt  music ;  so  I  charmed  their  ears, 
That,  calf-like,  they  my  lowing  followed,  through 
Toothed  briers,  sharp  furzes,  pricking  goss,  and  thorns, 
Which  entered  their  frail  shins :  at  last  I  left  them 
P  the  filthy  mantled  pool  beyond  your  cell, 
There  dancing  up  to  the  chins,  that  the  foul  lake 
O'er-stunk  their  feet. 

Pro.    This  was  well  done,  my  bird : 
Thy  shape  invisible  retain  thou  still : 
The  trumpery  in  my  house,  go,  bring  it  hither, 
For  stale l  to  catch  these  thieves. 

Ari.  I  go,  I  go.     [Exit, 

Pro.    A  devil,  a  bom  devil,  on  whose  nature 
Nurture  can  never  stick ;  on  whom  my  pains, 
Humanely  taken,  all,  all  lost,  quite  lost ; 
And  as,  with  age,  his  body  uglier  grows, 
So  his  mind  cankers :  I  will  plague  them  all, 

Re-enter  ARIEL  loaden  with  glistering  apparel,  &c. 
Even  to  roaring: — Come,  hang  them  on  this  line. 

1  Stale,  in  the  art  of  fowling,  signified  a  bait  or  lure  to  decoy  birds. 


64  TEMPEST.  [ACT  IV 

FROSPERO  and  ARIEL  remain  invisible.     Enter  CALI 
BAN,  STEPHANO,  and  TRINCULO  ;  all  wet. 

CaL    Pray  you,   tread  softly,  that  the   blind  mole 

may  not 
Hear  a  foot  fall :  we  now  are  near  his  cell. 

Ste.  Monster,  your  fairy,  which,  you  say,  is  a  harm 
less  fairy,  has  done  little  better  than  played  the  Jack : 
with  us. 

Trin.  Monster,  I  do  smell  all  horse-piss ;  at  which 
my  nose  is  in  great  indignation. 

Ste.  So  is  mine.  Do  you  hear,  monster?  If  I 
should  take  a  displeasure  against  you ;  look  you, — 

Trin.    Thou  wert  but  a  lost  monster. 

CaL    Good  my  lord,  give  me  thy  favor  still : 
Be  patient,  for  the  prize  I'll  bring  thee  to 
Shall  hood-wink  this  mischance  ;  therefore,  speak  softly; 
All's  hushed  as  midnight  yet. 

Trin.    Ay,  but  to  lose  our  bottles  in  the  pool, — 

Ste.  There  is  not  only  disgrace  and  dishonor  in 
that,  monster,  but  an  infinite  loss. 

Trin.  That's  more  to  me  than  my  wetting:  yet 
this  is  your  harmless  fairy,  monster. 

Ste.  I  will  fetch  off  my  bottle,  though  I  be  o'er  ears 
for  my  labor. 

CaL    Pr'ythee,  my  king,  be  quiet :  Seest  thou  here, 
This  is  the  mouth  of  the  cell :  no  noise,  and  enter : 
Do  that  good  mischief,  which  may  make  this  island 
Thine  own  forever,  and  I,  thy  Caliban, 
For  aye,  thy  foot-licker. 

Ste.  Give  me  thy  hand :  I  do  begin  to  have  bloody 
thoughts. 

Trin.  O  king  Stephano !  O  peer ! 2  O  worthy 
Stephano !  look,  what  a  wardrobe  here  is  for  thee  ! 

CaL    Let  it  alone,  thou  fool :  it  is  but  trash. 

Trin.  O,  ho,  monster ;  we  know  what  belongs  to  a 
frippery : 3 — O  king  Stephano  ! 

1  Played  the  Knave. 

~  This  is  a  humorous  allusion  to  the  old  ballad  "  King  Stephen  was  a 
worthy  peer."  3  A  shop  for  the  sale  of  old  clothes. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  65 

Ste.  Put  off  that  gown,  Trinculo ;  by  this  hand,  I'll 
have  that  gown. 

Trin.    Thy  grace  shall  have  it. 

CaL    The  dropsy  drown   this  fool !    what  do  you 

mean, 

To  dote  thus  on  such  luggage  ?     Let  it  alone, 
And  do  the  murder  first :  if  he  awake, 
From  toe  to  crown  he'll  fill  our  skins  with  pinches  ; 
Make  us  strange  stuff. 

Ste.  Be  you  quiet,  monster. — Mistress  line,  is  not 
this  my  jerkin  ?  Now  is  the  jerkin  under  the  line : 
now,  jerkin,  you  are  like  to  lose  your  hair,  and  prove 
a  bald  jerkin. 

Trin.  Do,  do  :  We  steal  by  line  and  level,  and'*  like 
your  grace. 

Ste.  I  thank  thee  for  that  jest ;  here's  a  garment 
for't :  wit  shall  not  go  unrewarded,  while  I  am  king 
of  this  country :  Steal  by  line  and  level,  is  an  excellent 
pass  of  pate  :  there's  another  garment  for't. 

Trin.  Monster,  come,  put  some  lime1  upon  your 
fingers,  and  away  with  the  rest. 

CaL    I  will  have  none  on't :  we  shall  lose  our  time, 
And  all  be  turned  to  barnacles,  or  to  apes 
With  foreheads  villanous  low. 

Ste.  Monster,  lay-to  your  fingers ;  help  to  bear  this 
away,  where  my  hogshead  of  wine  is,  or  I'll  turn  you 
out  of  my  kingdom  :  go  to,  carry  this. 

Trin.   And  this. 

Ste.   Ay,  and  this. 

A  noise  of  Hunters  heard.  Enter  diver  >  Spirits  in 
shape  of  hounds,  and  hunt  them  about;  PROSPERO 
and  ARIEL  setting  them  on. 

Pro.    Hey,  Mountain,  hey! 
An.    Silver!  there  it  goes,  Silver! 
Pro.    Fury !    Fury !    there,    Tyrant,    there !    hark, 
hark ! 

[CAL.  STE.  and  TRIN.  are  driven  out. 

1  Bird-lime. 
VOL.  I.  9 


66  TEMPEST.  [ACT  V 

Go,  charge  my  goblins  that  they  grind  their  joints 

With  dry  convulsions ;  shorten  up  their  sinews 

With   aged  cramps;    and    more    pinch-spotted  make 

them, 
Than  pard,  or  cat  o'  mountain. 

Ari.  Hark,  they  roar. 

Pro.    Let  them  be  hunted  soundly :  At  this  hour 
Lie  at  my  mercy  all  mine  enemies : 
Shortly  shall  all  my  labors  end,  and  thou 
Shalt  have  the  air  at  freedom :  for  a  little, 
Follow,  and  do  me  service.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— Before  the  Cell  o/Prospero. 
Enter  PROSPERO  in  his  magic  robes,  and  ARIEL. 

Pro.   Now  does  my  project  gather  to  a  head : 
My  charms  crack  not ;  my  spirits  obey ;  and  time 
Goes  upright  with  his  carriage.     How's  the  day  ? 

Ari.    On  the  sixth  hour ;  at  which  time,  my  lord, 
You  said  our  work  should  cease. 

Pro.  I  did  say  so, 

When  Krst  I  raised  the  tempest.     Say,  my  spirit, 
How  fares  the  king  and  his  followers  ? 

Ari.    Ccafmed  together 
In  the  same  fashion  as  you  gave  in  charge ; 
Just  as  you  left  them,  sir ;  all  prisoners 
In  the  lime  grove  which  weather-fends 1  your  cell : 
They  cannot  budge,  till  you  release.     The  king, 
His  brother,  and  yours,  abide  all  three  distracted ; 
And  the  remainder  mourning  over  them, 
Brim-full  of  sorrow,  and  dismay ;  but  chiefly 
Him  you  termed,  sir,  the  good  old  lord,  Gonzalo ; 

1  Defends  it  from  the  weather. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  67 

His  tears  run  down  his  beard,  like  winter's  drops 
From  eaves  of  reeds :  your  charm  so  strongly  works 

them, 

That  if  you  now  beheld  them,  your  affections 
Would  become  tender. 

Pro.  Dost  thou  think  so,  spirit  ? 

Ari.    Mine  would,  sir,  were  I  human. 

Pro.  And  mine  shall. 

Hast  thou,  which  art  but  air,  a  touch,  a  feeling 
Of  their  afflictions  ?  and  shall  not  myself, 
One  of  their  kind,  that  relish  all  as  sharply, 
Passion  as  they,  be  kindlier  moved  than  thou  art  ? 
Though  with  their  high  wrongs  I  am  struck  to  the 

quick, 

Yet,  with  my  nobler  reason,  'gainst  my  fury, 
Do  I  take  part :  the  rarer  action  is 
In  virtue  than  in  vengeance :  they  being  penitent, 
The  sole  drift  of  my  purpose  doth  extend 
Not  a  frown  further :  Go,  release  them,  Ariel ; 
My  charms  I'll  break,  their  senses  I'll  restore, 
And  they  shall  be  themselves. 

Ari.  I'll  fetch  them,  sir.     [Exit. 

Pro.   Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and 

groves ; 

And  ye,  that  on  the  sands  with  printless  foot 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back ;  you  demi-puppets,  that 
By  moon-shine  do  the  green-sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  not  bites  ;  and  you,  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight-mushrooms  ;  that  rejoice 
To  hear  the  solemn  curfew ;  by  whose  aid 
(Weak  masters  though  ye  be)  I  have  be-dimmed 
The  noon-tide  sun,  called  forth  the  mutinous  winds, 
And  'twixt  the  green  sea  and  the  azured  vault 
Set  roaring  war :  to  the  dread  rattling  thunder 
Have  I  given  fire,  and  rifted  Jove's  stout  oak 
With  his  own  bolt :  the  strong-based  promontory 
Have  I  made  shake ;  and  by  the  spurs  plucked  up 
The  pine  and  cedar :  graves,  at  my  command, 
Have  waked  their  sleepers ;  oped  and  let  them  forth, 


68  TEMPEST.  [ACT  V, 

By  my  so  potent  art :  But  this  rough  magic 

I  here  abjure ;  and,  when  I  have  required 

Some  heavenly  music,  (which  even  now  I  do,) 

To  work  mine  end  upon  their  senses,  that 

This  airy  charm  is  for,  I'll  break  my  staff, 

Bury  it  certain  fathoms  in  the  earth, 

And,  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound, 

I'll  drown  my  book.  [Solemn  music. 

Re-enter  ARIEL  :  after  him,  ALONZO,  with  a  frantic  ges 
ture,  attended  by  GONZALO  ;  SEBASTIAN  and  ANTO 
NIO  in  like  manner,  attended  by  ADRIAN  and  FRAN 
CISCO  :  They  all  enter  the  circle  which  PROSPERO 
had  made,  and  there  stand  charmed ;  which  PROSPERO 
observing,  speaks. 

A  solemn  air,  and  the  best  comforter 

To  an  unsettled  fancy,  cure  thy  brains, 

Now  useless,  boiled  within  thy  skull !     There  stand, 

For  you  are  spell-stopped. 

Holy  Gonzalo,  honorable  man, 

Mine  eyes,  ever  sociable  to  the  show  of  thine, 

Fall  fellowly  drops. — The  charm  dissolves  apace ; 

And  as  the  morning  steals  upon  the  night, 

Melting  the  darkness,  so  their  rising  senses 

Begin  to  chase  the  ignorant  fumes  that  mantle 

Their  clearer  reason. — O  my  good  Gonzalo, 

My  true  preserver,  and  a  loyal  sir 

To  him  thou  follow'st ;  I  will  pay  thy  graces 

Home,  both  in  word  and  deed. — Most  cruelly 

Didst  thou,  Alonzo,  use  me  and  my  daughter : 

Thy  brother  was  a  furtherer  in  the  act ; — 

Thou'rt   pinched   for't   now,    Sebastian. — Flesh    and 

blood, 

You  brother  mine,  that  entertained  ambition, 
Expelled  remorse  and  nature  ;  who  with  Sebastian 
(Whose  inward  pinches  therefore  are  most  strong,) 
Would  here  have  killed  your  king ;  I  do  forgive  thee, 
Unnatural  though  thou  art ! — Their  understanding 
Begins  to  swell ;  and  the  approaching  tide 
Will  shortly  fill  the  reasonable  shores, 


SC   I.]  TEMPEST.  69 

That  now  lie  foul  and  muddy.     Not  one  of  them, 

That  yet  looks  on  me,  or  would  know  me : — Ariel, 

Fetch  me  the  hat  and  rapier  in  my  cell ;    [Exit  ARIEL. 

I  will  dis-case  me,  and  myself  present, 

As  I  was  sometime  Milan  : — quickly,  spirit ; 

Thou  shalt  ere  long  be  free. 

ARIEL  re-enters,  singing,  and  helps  to  attire  PROSPERO. 

An.    Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie : 
There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly, 
After  summer,  merrily  : 
Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Pro.    Why,  that's  my  dainty  Ariel ;    I   shall  miss 

thee ; 

But  yet  thou  shalt  have  freedom :  so,  so,  so — 
To  the  king's  ship,  invisible  as  thou  art : 
There  shalt  thou  find  the  manners  asleep 
Under  the  hatches ;  the  master,  and  the  boatswain, 
Being  awake,  enforce  them  to  this  place  ; 
And  presently,  I  pr'ythee. 

Ari.    I  drink  the  air  before  me  and  return 
Or  e'er  your  pulse  twice  beat.  [Exit  ARIEL. 

Gon.    All  torment,  trouble,  wonder,  arid  amazement 
Inhabits  here  :  Some  heavenly  power  guide  us 
Out  of  this  fearful  country ! 

Pro.  Behold,  sir  king, 

The  wronged  duke  of  Milan,  Prospero : 
For  more  assurance  that  a  living  prince 
Does  now  speak  to  thee,  I  embrace  thy  body ; 
And  to  thee  and  thy  company,  I  bid 
A  hearty  welcome. 

Alon.  Whe'r  thou  beest  he,  or  no, 

Or  some  enchanted  trifle  to  abuse  me, 
As  late  I  have  been,  I  not  know :  thy  pulse 
Beats,  as  of  flesh  and  blood ;  and,  since  I  saw  thee, 
The  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which, 


70  TEMPEST.  [ACT  V. 

I  fear,  a  madness  held  me  :  this  must  crave 

(An  if  this  be  at  all)  a  most  strange  story. 

Thy  dukedom  I  resign ;  and  do  entreat 

Thou  pardon  me  my  wrongs : — But  how  should  Prospero 

Be  living,  and  be  here  ? 

Pro.  First,  noble  friend, 

Let  me  embrace  thine  age ;  whose  honor  cannot 
Be  measured,  or  confined. 

Gon.  Whether  this  be. 

Or  be  not,  I'll  not  swear. 

Pro.  You  do  yet  taste 

Some  subtilties  o'  the  isle,  that  will  not  let  you 
Believe  things  certain  : — Welcome,  my  friends  all : 
But  you,  my  brace  of  lords,  were  I  so  minded, 

[Aside  to  SEE.  and  ANT. 

I  here  could  pluck  his  highness'  frown  upon  you, 
And  justify  you  traitors  :  at  this  time 
I'll  tell  no  tales. 

Seb.  The  devil  speaks  in  him.        [Aside. 

Pro.  No  :— 

For  you,  most  wicked  sir,  whom  to  call  brother 
Would  even  infect  my  mouth,  I  do  forgive 
Thy  rankest  fault ;  all  of  them ;  and  require 
My  dukedom  of  thee,  which,  perforce,  I  know, 
Thou  must  restore. 

Alon.  If  thou  beest  Prospero, 

Give  us  particulars  of  thy  preservation  : 
How  thou  hast  met  us  here,  who  three  hours  since  ] 
Were  wrecked  upon  this  shore  ;  where  I  have  lost 
(How  sharp  the  point  of  this  remembrance  is !) 
My  dear  son  Ferdinand. 

Pro.  I  am  wo 2  for't,  sir. 

Alon.    Irreparable  is  the  loss  ;  and  Patience 
Says,  it  is  past  her  cure. 

Pro.  I  rather  think, 

You  have  not  sought  her  help ;  of  whose  soft  grace, 
For  the  like  loss,  I  have  her  sovereign  aid, 
And  rest  myself  content. 

1  The  unity  of  time  is  rigidly  observed  in  this  piece. 

2  Sony. 


ac.  I.]  TEMPEST.  71 

Alon.  You  the  like  loss  ? 

Pro.    As  great  to  me,  as  late  ;  and  portable 1 
To  make  the  dear  loss,  have  I  means  much  weaker 
Than  you  may  call  to  comfort  you ;  for  I 
Have  lost  my  daughter. 

Alon.  A  daughter  ? 

0  heavens !  that  they  were  living  both  in  Naples, 
The  king  and  queen  there !  that  they  were,  I  wish 
Myself  were  mudded  in  that  oozy  bed 

Where  my  son  lies.     When  did  you  lose  your  daughter  ? 

Pro.    In  this  last  tempest.     I  perceive,  these  lords 
At  this  encounter  do  so  much  admire, 
That  they  devour  their  reason ;  and  scarce  think 
Their  eyes  do  offices  of  truth,  their  words 
Are  natural  breath :  but,  howsoe'er  you  have 
Been  justled  from  your  senses,  know  for  certain, 
That  I  am  Prospero,  and  that  very  duke 
Which  was  thrust  forth  of  Milan ;  who  most  strangely 
Upon  this  shore,  where  you  were  wrecked,  was  landed, 
To  be  the  lord  on't.     No  more  yet  of  this  ; 
For  'tis  a  chronicle  of  day  by  day, 
Not  a  relation  for  a  breakfast,  nor 
Befitting  this  first  meeting.     Welcome,  sir ; 
This  cell's  my  court :  here  have  I  few  attendants, 
And  subjects  none  abroad  :  pray  you,  look  in. 
My  dukedom  since  you  have  given  me  again, 

1  will  requite  you  with  as  good  a  thing ; 

At  least,  bring  forth  a  wonder,  to  content  ye, 
As  much  as  me  my  dukedom. 

The  entrance  of  the  Cell  opens,  and  discovers  FERDI 
NAND  and  MIRANDA  playing  at  chess. 

Mir  a.    Sweet  lord,  you  play  me  false. 

Fer.  No,  my  dearest  love, 

1  would  not  for  the  world. 

Mira.   Yes,   for   a   score  of  kingdoms  you  should 

wrangle, 
And  I  would  call  it  fair  play. 

1  Tolerable. 


72  TEMPEST.  [ACT  V. 

Alon.  If  this  prove 

A  vision  of  the  island,  one  dear  son 
Shall  I  twice  lose. 

Seb.  A  most  high  miracle  ! 

Fer.    Though  the  seas  threaten,  they  are  merciful : 
1  have  cursed  them  without  cause. 

[Kneels  to  ALON. 

Alon.  Now  all  the  blessings 

Of  a  glad  father  compass  thee  about ! 
Arise,  and  say  how  thou  cam'st  here. 

Mira.  O  !  wonder f 

How  many  goodly  creatures  are  there  here ! 
How  beauteous  mankind  is !     O  brave  new  world, 
That  has  such  people  in't ! 

Pro.  'Tis  new  to  thee. 

Alon.    What  is  this   maid,  with  whom  thou  wast 

at  play  ? 

Your  eld'st  acquaintance  cannot  be  three  hours : 
Is  she  the  goddess  that  hath  severed  us, 
And  brought  us  thus  together  ? 

Fer.  Sir,  she's  mortal ; 

But,  by  immortal  Providence,  she's  mine ; 
I  chose  her,  when  I  could  not  ask  my  father 
For  his  advice  ;  nor  thought  I  had  one  :  she 
Is  daughter  to  this  famous  duke  of  Milan, 
Of  whom  so  often  I  have  heard  renown, 
But  never  saw  before  ;  of  whom  I  have 
Received  a  second  life,  and  second  father 
This  lady  makes  him  to  me. 

Alon.  I  am  hers  : 

But  O,  how  oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I 
Must  ask  my  child  forgiveness ! 

Pro.  There,  sir,  stop : 

Let  us  not  burden  our  remembrances 
With  heaviness  that's  gone. 

Gon.  I  have  inly  wept, 

Or  should  have  spoke  ere  this.     Look  down,  you  gods, 
And  on  this  couple  drop  a  blessed  crown ; 
For  it  is  you,  that  have  chalked  forth  the  way 
Which  brought  us  hither ! 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  73 

Alon.  I  say,  Amen,  Gonzalo. 

Gon.    Was  Milan  thrust  from  Milan,  that  his  issue 
Should  become  kings  of  Naples  ?     O,  rejoice 
Beyond  a  common  joy ;  and  set  it  down 
With  gold  on  lasting  pillars :  In  one  voyage 
Did  Claribel  her  husband  find  at  Tunis  ; 
And  Ferdinand,  her  brother,  found  a  wife 
Where  he  himself  was  lost ;  Prospero  his  dukedom, 
In  a  poor  isle ;  and  all  of  us,  ourselves, 
When  no  man  was  his  own.1 

Alon.  Give  me  your  hands  : 

[To  FER.  and  MIRA. 

Let  grief  and  sorrow  still  embrace  his  heart, 
That  doth  not  wish  you  joy ! 

Gon.  Be't  so !  Amen  ! 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  with  the  Master  and  Boatswain  ama 
ze  dly  follow  ing. 

0  look,  sir,  look,  sir ;  here  are  more  of  us ! 

1  prophesied,  if  a  gallows  were  on  land, 

This  fellow  could  not  drown : — Now,  blasphemy, 
That  swear'st  grace  o'erboard,  not  an  oath  on  shore  ? 
Hast  thou  no  mouth  by  land  ?     What  is  the  ne\vs  ? 

Boats.    The  best  news  is,  that  we  have  safely  found 
Our  king,  and  company :  the  next  our  ship, — 
Which,  but  three  glasses  since,  we  gave  out  split, — 
Is  tight  and  yare,  and  bravely  rigged,  as  when 
We  first  put  out  to  sea. 

Ari.  Sir,  all  this  service  } 

Have  I  done  since  I  went.  \  [Aside. 

Pro.  My  tricksy  spirit !  ) 

^  Alon.    These  are  not  natural  events  ;  they  strengthen, 
From  strange  to  stranger  : — Say,  how  came  you  hither  ? 

Boats.    If  I  did  think,  sir,  I  were  well  awake, 
Pd  strive  to  tell  you.     We  were  dead  of  sleep, 
And  (how,  we  know  not)  all  clapped  under  hatches, 
Where,  but  even  now,  with  strange  and  several  noises 
Of  roaring,  shrieking,  howling,  gingling  chains, 

1  When  no  man  was  in  his  senses  or  had  self-possession. 
VOL.    I.  10 


74  TEMPEST.  [ACT  V. 

And  more  diversity  of  sounds,  all  horrible, 
We  were  awaked  ;  straightway  at  liberty : 
Where  we,  in  all  her  trim,  freshly  beheld 
Our  royal,  good,  and  gallant  ship ;  our  master 
Capering  to  eye  her :  On  a  trice,  so  please  you, 
Even  in  a  dream,  were  wre  divided  from  them, 
And  were  brought  moping  hither. 

Ari.  Was't  well  done  ?  } 

Pro.    Bravely,  my  diligence.     Thou  shalt  >  [Aside. 
be  free.  ) 

Alon.    This  is  as  strange  a  maze  as  e'er  men  trod : 
And  there  is  in  this  business  more  than  nature 
Was  ever  conduct 1  of :  some  oracle 
Must  rectify  our  knowledge. 

Pro.  Sir,  my  liege, 

Do  not  infest  your  mind  with  beating  on 
The  strangeness  of  this  business  :  at  picked  leisure, 
Which  shall  be  shortly,  single  I'll  resolve  you 
(Which  to  you  shall  seem  probable)  of  every 
These  happened  accidents :  till  when,  be  cheerful, 
And  think  of  each  thing  well. — Come  hither,  spirit ; 

[Aside 

Set  Caliban  and  his  companions  free : 
Untie  the  spell.     [Exit  ARIEL.]     How  fares  my  gra 
cious  sir  ? 

There  are  yet  missing  of  your  company 
Some  few  odd  lads,  that  you  remember  not. 

Re-enter  ARIEL,  driving  in  CALIBAN,   STEPHANO,  and 
TRINCULO,  in  their  stolen  apparel. 

Ste.  Every  man  shift  for  all  the  rest,  and  let  no 
man  take  care  for  himself ;  for  all  is  but  fortune: — 
Coragio,  bully-monster,  Coragio ! 

Trin.  If  these  be  true  spies  which  I  wear  in  my 
head,  here's  a  goodly  sight. 

Cal.    O  Setebos,  these  be  brave  spirits,  indeed ! 
How  fine  my  master  is  !     I  am  afraid 
He  will  chastise  me. 

1  Conductor. 


SC.  I.]  TEMPEST.  75 

Seb.  Ha,  ha ! 

What  things  are  these,  my  lord  Antonio  ? 
Will  money  buy  them  ? 

Ant.  Very  like  ;  one  of  them 

Is  a  plain  fish,  and,  no  doubt,  marketable. 

Pro.    Mark  but  the  badges  of  these  men,  my  lords, 
Then  say,  if  they  be  true  : — This  misshapen  knave, 
His  mother  was  a  witch ;  and  one  so  strong 
That  could  control  the  moon,  make  flows  and  ebbs, 
And  daal  in  her  command,  without  her  power : 1 
These  three  have  robbed  me ;  and  this  demi-devil 
(For  he's  a  bastard  one)  had  plotted  with  them 
To  take  my  life  :  two  of  these  fellows  you 
Must  know,  and  own  ;  this  thing  of  darkness  I 
Acknowledge  mine. 

CaL  I  shall  be  pinched  to  death. 

Alon.    Is  not  this  Stephano,  my  drunken  butler  ? 

Seb.    He  is  drunk  now  :  Where  had  he  wine  ? 

Alon.    And  Trinculo  is  reeling  ripe  :  Where  should 

they 

Find  this  grand  liquor  that  hath  gilded  them  ? 2 — 
How  cam'st  thou  in  this  pickle  ? 

Trin.  I  have  been  in  such  a  pickle,  since  I  saw 
you  last,  that,  I  fear  me,  will  never  out  of  my  bones : 
I  shall  not  fear  fly-blowing. 

Seb.    Why,  how  now,  Stephano  ? 

Ste.    O,  touch  me  not ;  I  am  not  Stephano,  but  a 
cramp. 

Pro.    You'd  be  king  of  the  isle,  sirrah  ? 

Ste.    I  should  have  been  a  sore  one  then. 

Alon.    This  is  as  strange  a  thing  as  e'er  I  looked  on. 

[Pointing  to  CALIBAN. 

Pro.    He  is  as  disproportioned  in  his  manners, 
As  in  his  shape  : — Go,  sirrah,  to  my  cell ; 
Take  with  you  your  companions  ;  as  you  look 
To  have  my  pardon,  trim  it  handsomely. 

1  That  is,  work  the  same  effects  as  the  moon,  without  her  delegated 
authority. 

2  The  phrase  being  gilded  was  a  trite  one  for  being  drunk. 


76  TEMPEST.  [ACT  V. 

Cal.    Ay,  that  I  will ;  and  I'll  be  wise  hereafter, 
And  seek  for  grace :  What  a  thrice  double  ass 
Was  I,  to  take  this  drunkard  for  a  god, 
And  worship  this  dull  fool ! 

Pro.  Go  to  ;  away  ! 

Alon.    Hence,  and  bestow  your  luggage  where  you 
found  it. 

Seb.    Or  stole  it,  rather. 

[Exeunt  CAL.  STE.  and  THIN. 

Pro.    Sir,  I  invite  your  highness,  and  your  train, 
To  my  poor  cell ;  where  you  shall  take  your  rest 
For  this  one  night ;  which  (part  of  it)  I'll  waste 
With  such  discourse,  as,  I  not  doubt,  shall  make  it 
Go  quick  away  :  the  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particular  accidents,  gone  by, 
Since  I  came  to  this  isle :  And  in  the  morn, 
I'll  bring  you  to  your  ship,  and  so  to  Naples, 
Where  I  have  hope  to  see  the  nuptial 
Of  these  our  dear-beloved  solemnized  ; 
And  thence  retire  me  to  my  Milan,  where 
Every  third  thought  shall  be  my  grave. 

Alon.  I  long 

To  hear  the  story  of  your  life,  which  must 
Take  the  ear  strangely. 

Pro.  I'll  deliver  all ; 

And  promise  you  calm  seas,  auspicious  gales, 
And  sail  so  expeditions,  that  shall  catch 
Your  royal  fleet  far  off. — My  Ariel, — chick, — 
That  is  thy  charge  ;  then  to  the  elements 
Be  free,  and  fare  thou  well ! — [Aside.']     Please  you, 
draw  near.  [Exeunt. 


TEMPEST.  77 


EPILOGUE. 

SPOKEN    BY    PROSPEflO. 

Now  my  charms  are  all  o'erthrown, 
And  what  strength  I  have's  mine  own, 
Which  is  most  faint :  now,  'tis  true, 
I  must  be  here  confined  by  you, 
Or  sent  to  Naples  :  Let  me  not, 
Since  I  have  my  dukedom  got, 
And  pardoned  the  deceiver,  dwell 
In  this  bare  island,  by  your  spell  ; 
But  release  me  from  my  bands, 
With  the  help  of  your  good  hands.1 
Gentle  breath  of  yours  my  sails 
Must  fill,  or  else  my  project  fails, 
Which  was  to  please  :  Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant ; 
And  my  ending  is  despair, 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer ; 
Which  pierces  so,  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults. 

As  you  from  crimes  wrould  pardoned  be, 
Let  your  indulgence  set  me  free. 

1  By  your  applause.    Noise  was  supposed  to  dissolve  a  spell. 


78 


IT  is  observed  of  The  Tempest,  that  its  plan  is  regular:  this  the  author 
of  The  Revised  thinks,  Avhat  I  think  too,  an  accidental  effect  of  the  story 
not  intended  or  regarded  by  our  author.  But  whatever  might  be  Shak- 
speare's  intention  in  forming  or  adopting  the  plot,  he  has  made  it  instru 
mental  to  the  production  of  many  characters,  diversified  with  boundless 
invention,  and  preserved  with  profound  skill  in  nature,  extensive  knowl 
edge  of  opinions,  and  accurate  observation  of  life.  In  a  single  drama  are 
here  exhibited  princes,  courtiers,  and  sailors,  all  speaking  in  their  real 
characters.  There  is  the  agency  of  airy  spirits,  and  of  an  earthly  goblin, 
the  operations  of  magic,  the  tumults  of  a  storm,  the  adventures  of  a  desert 
island,  the  native  effusion  of  untaught  affection,  the  punishment  of  guilt, 
and  the  final  happiness  of  the  pair  for  whom  our  passions  and  reason  are 
equally  interested.  JOHNSON. 


79 


TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

THIS  is  one  of  Shakspeare's  earliest  if  not  his  first  play.  It  was  not 
printed  until  1623 ;  but  it  is  mentioned  by  Meres  in  his  Wit's  Treasury, 
printed  in  1598.  It  bears  strong  internal  marks  of  an  early  composition. 
Pope  has  observed,  that  "the  style  of  this  comedy  is  less  figurative,  and 
more  natural  and  unaffected  than  the  greater  part  of  Shakspeare's,  though 
supposed  to  be  one  of  the  first  he  wrote."  Malone  is  inclined  to  consider 
this  to  be  in  consequence  of  that  very  circumstance,  and  that  it  is  natural 
and  unaffected,  because  it  was  a  youthful  performance.  "Though  many 
young  poets  of  ordinary  talents  are  led  by  false  taste  to  adopt  inflated 
and  figurative  language,  why  should  we  suppose  that  such  should  have 
been  the  course  pursued  by  this  master  genius  ?  The  figurative  style  of 
Othello,  Lear,  arid  Macbeth,  written  when  he  was  an  established  and 
long-practised  dramatist,  may  be  ascribed  to  the  additional  knowledge  of 
men  and  things  which  he  had  acquired  during  a  period  of  fifteen  years  ; 
in  consequence  of  which  Ms  mind  teemed  Avith  images  and  illustrations, 
and  thoughts  crowded  so  fast  upon  him,  that  the  construction,  in  these 
and  some  other  plays  of  a  still  later  period,  is  much  more  difficult  and  in 
volved  than  in  the  productions  of  his  youth." 

Hanmer  thought  Shakspeare  had  no  other  hand  in  this  play,  than  the 
enlivening  it  with  some  speeches  and  lines,  which,  he  thinks,  are  easily  dis 
tinguished  from  the  rest.  Upton  peremptorily  asserts,  "that  if  any  proof 
can  be  drawn  from  manner  and  style,  this  play  must  be  sent  packing,  and 
seek  for  its  parent  elsewhere."  " How  otherwise,"  says  he,  "do  painters 
distinguish  copies  from  originals  ?  and  have  not  authors  their  peculiar  style 
and  manner,  from  which  a  true  critic  can  form  as  unerring  judgment  as  a 
painter ? "  To  this  Johnson  replies  very  satisfactorily :  "I  am  afraid  this 
illustration  of  a  critic's  science  will  not  prove  what  is  desired.  A  painter 
knows  a  copy  from  an  original,  by  rules  somewhat  resembling  those  by 
which  critics  know  a  translation,  which,  if  it  be  literal,  and  literal  it  must 
be  to  resemble  the  copy  of  a  picture,  will  be  easily  distinguished.  Copies 
are  known  from  originals,  even  when  a  painter  copies  his  own  picture  ; 
so,  if  an  author  should  literally  translate  his  Avork,  he  would  lose  the  man 
ner  of  an  original.  Upton  confounds  the  copy  of  a  picture  with  the 
imitation  of  a  painter's  manner.  Copies  are  easily  known ;  but  good  imi 
tations  are  not  detected  with  equal  certainty,  and  are,  by  the  best  judges, 
often  mistaken.  Nor  is  it  true  that  the  writer  has  always  peculiarities 
equally  distinguishable  with  those  of  the  painter.  The  peculiar  manner 
of  each  arises  from  the  desire,  natural  to  every  performer,  of  facilitating 
his  subsequent  work  by  recurrence  to  his  former  ideas  :  this  recurrence 
produces  that  repetition  which  is  called  habit.  The  painter,  whose  work 
is  partly  intellectual  and  partly  manual,  has  habits  of  the  mind,  the  eye, 
and  the  hand ;  the  writer  has  only  habits  of  the  mind.  Yet  some  painters 


80  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 

have  differed  as  much  from  themselves  as  from  any  other ;  and  I  have 
been  told,  that  there  is  little  resemblance  between  the  first  works  of 
Raphael  and  the  last.  The  same  variation  may  be  expected  in  writers  ; 
and,  if  it  be  true,  as  it  seems,  that  they  are  less  subject  to  habit,  the  differ 
ence  between  their  works  may  be  yet  greater." 

"  But  by  the  internal  marks  of  composition  we  may  discover  the  author 
with  probability,  though  seldom  with  certainty.  When  I  read  this  play,  I 
cannot  but  think  that  I  find,  botli  in  the  serious  and  ludicrous  scenes,  the 
language  and  sentiments  of  Shakspeare.  It  is  not  indeed  one  of  his 
most  powerful  effusions  ;  it  has  neither  many  diversities  of  character,  nor 
striking  delineation  of  life,  but  it  abounds  in  yvouai  beyond  most  of  his 
plays,  and  few  have  more  lines  or  passages  which,  singly  considered,  are 
eminently  beautiful.  I  am  yet  inclined  to  believe  that  it  was  not  very 
successful,  and  suspect  that  it  has  escaped  corruption,  only  because,  being 
seldom  played,  it  was  less  exposed  to  the  hazards  of  transcription." 

Pope  has  set  what  he  calls  a  mark  of  reprobation  upon  the  low  and 
trifling  conceits  which  are  to  be  found  in  this  play.  It  is  true  that  the  fa 
miliar  scenes  abound  with  quibbles  and  conceits ;  but  the  poet  must  not 
be  condemned  for  adopting  a  mode  of  writing  admired  by  his  contempo 
raries  ;  they  were  not  considered  low  and  trifling  in  Shakspeare's  age, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  were  very  generally  admired  and  allowed  for  pure 
and  genuine  wit.  Yet  some  of  these  scenes  have  much  farcical  drollery 
and  invention:  that  of  Launce  with  his  dog  in  the  fourth  act  is  an  instance, 
and  surely  "  Speed's  mode  of  proving  his  master  to  be  in  love  is  neither 
deficient  in  wit  or  sense." 

"  The  tender  scenes  in  this  play,  though  not  so  highly  wrought  as  in 
some  others,  have  often  much  sweetness  of  sentiment  and  expression." 
Schlegel  says,  "It  is  as  if  the  world  was  obliged  to  accommodate  itself 
to  a  transient  youthful  caprice,  called  love."  Julia  may  be  considered  a 
light  sketch  of  the  lovely  characters  of  Viola  and  Imogen.  Her  answer 
to  Lucetta's  advice  against  following  her  lover  in  disguise  has  been  pointed 
out  as  a  beautiful  and  highly-poetical  passage. 

"  That  it  should  ever  have  been  a  question  whether  this  comedy  were 
the  genuine  and  entire  composition  of  Shakspeare  appears  to  me  very 
extraordinary,"  says  Malorie.  "  Hanmer  and  Upton  never  seem  to  have 
considered  whether  it  were  his  first  or  one  of  his  latest  pieces.  Is  no  al 
lowance  to  be  made  for  the  first  flights  of  a  young  poet?  nothing  for  the 
imitation  of  a  preceding  celebrated  dramatist,*"  which  in  some  of  the 
lower  dialogues  of  this  comedy  (and  these  only)  may,  I  think,  be  traced  ? 
But  even  these,  as  well  as  the  other  parts  of  the  play,  are  perfectly  Shak- 
spearean  (I  do  not  say  as  finished  and  beautiful  as  any  of  his  other  pieces) ; 
and  the  same  judgment  must,  I  conceive,  be  pronounced  concerning  the 
Comedy  of  Errors  and  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  by  every  person  who  is  inti 
mately  acquainted  with  his  manner  of  writing  and  thinking." 

Sir  William  Blackstone  observes,  "that one  of  the  great  faults  of  the 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  is  the  hastening  too  abruptly,  and  without 
preparation,  to  the  denouement,  which  shows  that  it  was  one  of  Shak 
speare's  very  early  performances."  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  concluding  obser 
vations,  has  remarked  upon  the  geographical  errors.  They  cannot  be  de 
fended  by  attributing  them  to  his  youthful  inexperience,  for  one  of  his  latest 
productions  is  also  liable  to  the  same  objection.  To  which  Malone  replies : 
"  The  truth,  I  believe,  is,  that  as  he  neglected  to  observe  the  rules  of  the 
drama  with  respect  to  the  unities,  though  before  he  began  to  write  they 
had  been  enforced  by  Sidney  in  a  treatise  which  doubtless  he  had  read; 

*  Mai  one  points  at  Lilly,  whose  comedies  were  performed  with  great  success  and  admi 
ration  previous  to  Shakspeare's  commencement  of  his  dramatic  career. 


PRELIMINARY  REMARKS.  81 

BO  he  seems  to  have  thought  that  the  whole  terraqueous  globe  was  at  his 
command ;  and  as  he  brought  in  a  child  at  the  beginning  of  a  play, 
who  in  the  fourth  act  appears  as  a  woman,  so  he  seems  to  have  set  geog 
raphy  at  defiance,  and  to  have  considered  countries  as  inland  or  maritime, 
just  as  it  suited  his  fancy  or  convenience." 

Some  of  the  incidents  in  this  play  may  be  supposed  to  have  been  taken 
from  The  Arcadia,  book  1.  ch.  vi..  where  Pyrocles  consents  to  head  the 
Helots.  The  Arcadia  was  entered  on  the  Stationers'  books  in  1588.  The 
love  adventure  of  Julia  resembles  that  of  Viola  in  Twelfth  Night,  and  is 
indeed  common  to  many  of  the  ancient  novels. 

Mrs.  Lennox  informs  us,  that  the  story  of  Proteus  and  Julia  might  be 
taken  from  a  similar  one  in  "  The  Diana"  of  Montemayor.  This  pastoral 
romance  was  translated  from  the  Spanish  in  Shakspeare's  time,  by  Bar- 
tholomeAV  Young,  and  published  in  1598.  It  does  not  appear  that  it  was 
previously  published,  though  it  was  translated  two  or  three  years  before 
by  one  Thomas  Wilson.  Perhaps  some  parts  of  it  may  have  been  made 
public,  or  Shakspeare  may  have  found  the  tale  elsewhere.  It  has  before 
been  observed  that  Meres  mentions  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  in  his 
book,  published  in  1598.  Malone  conjectures  that  this  play  was  the  first 
that  Shakspeare  wrote,  and  places  the  date  of  its  composition  in  the 
year  1591. 

VOL.    I.  11 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

DUKE  of  MILAN,  Father  to  Silvia. 
VALENTINE,  )  „  r  Tr 

PROTEUS,       }  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

ANTONIO,  Father  to  Proteus. 
THURIO,  a  foolish  Rival  to  Valentine. 
EGLAMOUR,  Agent  for  Silvia  in  her  escape. 
SPEED,  a  clownish  Servant  to  Valentine. 
LAUNCE,  Servant  to  Proteus. 
PANTHINO,  Servant  to  Antonio. 
Host,  where  Julia  lodges  in  Milan. 
Outlaws. 

JULIA,  a  Lady  of  Verona,  beloved  by  Proteus. 
SILVIA,  the  Duke's  Daughter,  beloved  by  Valentine. 
LUCETTA,  Waiting-woman  to  Julia. 

Servants,  Musicians. 

SCENE.     Sometimes  in  VERONA  ;  sometimes  in  MILAN  ;  and  on  the 
frontiers  of  MANTUA. 


83 


TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     An  open  Place  in  Verona 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  PROTEUS. 

Vol.    CEASE  to  persuade,  my  loving  Proteus ; 
Home-keeping  youth  have  ever  homely  wits : 
Wer't  not,  affection  chains  thy  tender  days 
To  the  sweet  glances  of  thy  honored  love, 
I  rather  would  entreat  thy  company, 
To  see  the  wonders  of  the  world  abroad, 
Than  living  dully  sluggardized  at  home, 
Wear  out  thy  youth  with  shapeless  idleness. 
But,  since  thou  lov'st,  love  still,  and  thrive  therein, 
Even  as  I  would,  when  I  to  love  begin. 

Pro.   Wilt  thou  begone  ?     Sweet  Valentine,  adieu 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou,  haply,  seest 
Some  rare  note-worthy  object  in  thy  travel : 
Wish  me  partaker  in  thy  happiness, 
When  thou  dost  meet  good  hap ;  and,  in  thy  danger, 
If  ever  danger  do  environ  thee, 
Commend  thy  grievance  to  my  holy  prayers, 
For  I  will  be  thy  bead's-man,  Valentine. 

VaL    And  on  a  love-book  pray  for  my  success. 

Pro.    Upon  some  book  I  love,  I'll  pray  for  thee. 

VaL    That's  on  some  shallow  story  of  deep  love, 
How  young  Leander  crossed  the  Hellespont.1 

Pro.    That's  a  deep  story  of  a  deeper  love  ; 
For  he  was  more  than  over  shoes  in  love. 

1  The  allusion  is  to  Marlow's  poem  of  Hero  and  Leander. 


84  TWO    GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  I. 

Vol.    'Tis  true  ;  for  you  are  over  boots  in  love, 
And  yet  you  never  swam  the  Hellespont. 

Pro.    Over  the  boots  ?  nay,  give  me  not  the  boots.1 

VaL   No,  I  will  not,  for  it  boots  thee  not. 

Pro.  What  ? 

VaL    To  be  in  love,  where   scorn  is  bought  with 

groans ; 
Coy  looks,  with  heart-sore  sighs  ;  one  fading  moment's 

mirth, 

With  twenty  watchful,  weary,  tedious  nights : 
If  haply  won,  perhaps  a  hapless  gain  ; 
If  lost,  why  then  a  grievous  labor  won ; 
However,  but  a  folly  bought  with  wit, 
Or  else  a  wit  by  folly  vanquished. 

Pro.    So  by  your  circumstance,  you  call  me  fool 

Vol.    So,    by   your    circumstance,2    I    fear,    you'll 
prove. 

Pro.    'Tis  love  you  cavil  at ;  I  am  not  Love. 

Vol.    Love  is  your  master,  for  he  masters  you : 
And  he  that  is  so  yoked  by  a  fool, 
Methinks  should  not  be  chronicled  for  wise. 

Pro.    Yet  writers  say,  As  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

VaL    And  writers  say,  As  the  most  forward  bud 
Is  eaten  by  the  canker  ere  it  blow, 
Even  so  by  love  the  young  and  tender  wit 
Is  turned  to  folly ;  blasting  in  the  bud, 
Losing  his  verdure  even  in  the  prime, 
And  all  the  fair  effects  of  future  hopes. 
But  wherefore  waste  I  time  to  counsel  thee 
That  art  a  votary  to  fond  desire  ? 
Once  more  adieu :  my  father  at  the  road 
Expects  my  coming,  there  to  see  me  shipped.  , 

Pro.    And  thither  will  I  bring  thee,  Valentine. 

VaL    Sweet  Proteus,  no  ;  now  let  us  take  our  leave. 

1  A  proverbial   expression,   now   disused,  signifying,   "Don't  make  a 
laughing-stock  of  me." 

2  Circumstance  here  means  conduct',   in  the  preceding  line,  circum 
stantial  deduction. 


SC.  I.]        TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.          85 

To l  Milan,  let  me  hear  from  thee  by  letters, 
Of  thy  success  in  love,  and  what  news  else 
Betideth  here  in  absence  of  thy  friend  ; 
And  I  likewise  will  visit  thee  with  mine. 

Pro.    All  happiness  bechance  to  thee  in  Milan ! 

Vol.    As  much  to  you  at  home  !  and  so,  farewell ! 

[Exit  VALENTINE. 

Pro.    He  after  honor  hunts,  I  after  love. 
He  leaves  his  friends,  to  dignify  them  more  ; 
I  leave  myself,  my  friends,  and  all  for  love. 
Thou,  Julia,  thou  hast  metamorphosed  me ; 
Made  me  neglect  my  studies,  lose  my  time, 
War  with  good  counsel,  set  the  world  at  nought ; 
Made  wit  with  musing  weak,  heart  sick  with  thought. 

Enter  SPEED. 

Speed.    Sir  Proteus,  save  you  :  Saw  you  my  master  ? 

Pro.    But   now   he    parted   hence,   to    embark   for 
Milan. 

Speed.  Twenty  to  one,  then,  he  is  shipped  already ; 
And  I  have  played  the  sheep,2  in  losing  him. 

Pro.    Indeed  a  sheep  doth  very  often  stray, 
An  if  the  shepherd  be  awhile  away. 

Speed.  You  conclude  that  my  master  is  a  shepherd 
then,  and  I  a  sheep  ? 

Pro.    I  do. 

Speed.  Why  then,  my  horns  are  his  horns,  whether 
1  wake  or  sleep. 

Pro.    A  silly  answer,  and  fitting  well  a  sheep. 

Speed.    This  proves  me  still  a  sheep. 

Pro.    True  ;  and  thy  master  a  shepherd. 

Speed.   Nay,  that  I  can  deny  by  a  circumstance. 

Pro.    It  shall  go  hard,  but  I'll  prove  it  by  another. 

Speed.  The  shepherd  seeks  the  sheep,  and  not  the 
sheep  the  shepherd ;  but  I  seek  my  master,  and  my 
master  seeks  not  me  :  therefore  I  am  no  sheep. 

1  The  construction  of  this  passage  is,  "Let  me  hear  from  thee  by  let 
ters  to  Milan." 

2  In  Warwickshire,  and  some   other  counties,  a  sheep  is  pronounced 
a  ship. 


86  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  1. 

Pro.  The  sheep  for  fodder  follow  the  shepherd,  the 
shepherd  for  food  follows  not  the  sheep ;  thou  for 
wages  followest  thy  master,  thy  master  for  wages  fol 
lows  not  thee  :  therefore  thou  art  a  sheep. 

Speed.    Such  another  proof  will  make  me  cry  baa. 

Pro.  But  dost  thou  hear  ?  gav'st  thou  my  letter  to 
Julia  ? 

Speed.  Ay,  sir;  I,  a  lost  mutton,  gave  your  letter 
to  her,  a  laced  mutton ; 1  and  she,  a  laced  mutton, 
gave  me,  a  lost  mutton,  nothing  for  my  labor. 

Pro.  Here's  too  small  a  pasture  for  such  a  store  of 
muttons. 

Speed.  If  the  ground  be  overcharged,  you  were  best 
stick  her. 

Pro.  Nay,  in  that  you  are  astray ;  'twere  best 
pound  you. 

Speed.  Nay,  sir,  less  than  a  pound  shall  serve  me 
for  carrying  your  letter. 

Pro.    You  mistake ;  I  mean  the  pound,  a  pinfold. 

Speed.    From  a  pound  to  a  pin  ?  fold  it  over  and 

over, 

'Tis  threefold  too  little  for  carrying  a  letter  to  your 
lover. 

Pro.    But  what  said  she  ?  did  she  nod  ? 2 

[SPEED  nods. 

Speed.    I. 

Pro.    Nod,  I !  why,  that's  noddy. 

Speed.  You  mistook,  sir.  I  say  she  did  nod  :  and 
you  ask  me,  if  she  did  nod ;  and  I  say,  I. 

Pro.    And  that  set  together  is — noddy. 

Speed.  Now  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  set  it  to 
gether,  take  it  for  your  pains. 

Pro.    No,  no,  you  shall  have  it  for  bearing  the  letter. 

Speed.  Well,  I  perceive  I  must  be  fain  to  bear 
with  you. 

Pro.    Why,  sir,  how  do  you  bear  with  me  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  the  letter  very  orderly ;  having 
nothing  but  the  word,  noddy,  for  my  pains. 

1  A  term  for  a  courtezan. 

2  These  words  were  supplied  by  Theobald  to  introduce  what  follows. 


SC.  II.]  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  87 

Pro.    Beshrew  me,  but  you  have  a  quick  wit. 

Speed.    And  jet  it  cannot  overtake  your  slow  purse. 

Pro.  Come,  come,  open  the  matter  in  brief:  What 
said  she  ? 

Speed.  Open  your  purse,  that  the  money  and  the 
matter  may  be  both  at  once  delivered. 

Pro.  Well,  sir,  here  is  for  your  pains :  What 
said  she  ? 

Speed.    Truly,  sir,  I  think  you'll  hardly  win  her. 

Pro.  Why  ?  Could'st  thou  perceive  so  much  from 
her? 

Speed.  Sir,  I  could  perceive  nothing  at  all  from  her  ; 
no,  not  so  much  as  a  ducat  for  delivering  your  letter  • 
And  being  so  hard  to  me  that  brought  your  mind,  I 
fear  she'll  prove  as  hard  to  you  in  telling  your  mind. 
Give  her  no  token  but  stones,  for  she's  as  hard  as  steel. 

Pro.    What,  said  she  nothing  ? 

Speed.  No,  not  so  much  as — take  this  for  thy  pains. 
To  testify  your  bounty,  I  thank  you,  you  have  tes- 
terned 1  me  ;  in  requital  whereof,  henceforth  carry  your 
letters  yourself:  and  so,  sir,  I'll  commend  you  to  my 
master. 

Pro.    Go,  go,  begone,  to  save  your  ship  from  wreck ; 
Which  cannot  perish,  having  thee  aboard, 
Being  destined  to  a  drier  death  on  shore : — 
I  must  go  send  some  better  messenger ; 
I  fear  my  Julia  would  not  deign  my  lines, 
Receiving  them  from  such  a  worthless  post.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     The  same.     Garden  of  Julia's  House 

Enter  JULIA  and  LUCETTA. 

Jul.    But  say,  Lucetta,  now  we  are  alone, 
Would'st  thou  then  counsel  me  to  fall  in  love  ? 

1  Testens,  or  (as  we  now  commonly  call  them)  testers,  from  a  head  that 
was  upon  them,  were  coined  in  1542.  Sir  H.  Spelman  says  they  were  a 
French  coin  of  the  value  of  I8d. ;  and  he  does  not  know  but  that  they 
might  have  gone  for  as  much  in  England.  They  were  afterwards  reduced 
to  12d.,  9d.,  and,  finally,  to  sixpence. 


90  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  I. 

That  you  might  kill  your  stomach 1  on  your  meat, 
And  not  upon  your  maid. 

J-ul.    What  is't  you  took  up 
So  gingerly  ? 

Luc.   Nothing. 

JuL    Why  didst  thou  stoop  then  ? 

Luc.    To  take  a  paper  up  that  I  let  fall. 

JuL    And  is  that  paper  nothing  ? 

Luc.    Nothing  concerning  me. 

JuL    Then  let  it  lie  for  those  that  it  concerns. 

Luc.    Madam,  it  will  not  lie  where  it  concerns, 
Unless  it  have  a  false  interpreter. 

JuL    Some  love  of  yours  hath  writ  to  you  in  rhyme. 

Luc.    That  I  might  sing  it,  madam,  to  a  tune : 
Give  me  a  note  :  your  ladyship  can  set. 

JuL    As  little  by  such  toys  as  may  be  possible : 
Best  sing  it  to  the  tune  of  Light  o'  love. 

Luc.    It  is  too  heavy  for  so  light  a  tune. 

JuL    Heavy  ?  belike  it  hath  some  burden  then. 

Luc.    Ay ;  and  melodious  were  it,  would  you  sing  it. 

JuL    And  why  not  you  ? 

Luc.    I  cannot  reach  so  high. 

JuL    Let's  see  your  song  : — How  now,  minion  ? 

Luc.    Keep  tune  there  still,  so  you  will  sing  it  out . 
And  yet,  methinks,  I  do  not  like  this  tune. 

JuL   You  do  not  ? 

Luc.    No,  madam  ;  it  is  too  sharp. 

JuL  You,  minion,  are  too  saucy. 

Luc.    Nay,  now  you  are  too  flat, 
And  mar  the  concord  with  too  harsh  a  descant : 2 
There  wanteth  but  a  mean  to  fill  your  song. 

Jul     The  mean  is  drowned  with  your  unruly  base. 

Luc.    Indeed,  I  bid  the  base 3  for  Proteus. 

JuL    This  babble  shall  not  henceforth  trouble  me. 


1  Passion  or  obstinacy. 

2  Descant  signified  formerly  what  we  now  call  variations.     The  mean  is 
the  tenor  in  music. 

3  To  bid  the  ba.se  means,  to  run  fast,  challenging  another  to  pursue  at  the 
rustic  game  called  Base,  or  Prisonbase.     The  allusion  is  somewhat  ob 
scure,  but  it  appears  to  mean  here,  "to  challenge  to  an  encounter." 


SC.  II.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  91 

Here  is  a  coil 1  with  protestation  !         [  Tears  the  letter. 
Go,  get  you  gone  ;  and  let  the  papers  lie  : 
You  would  be  fingering  them,  to  anger  me. 

Luc.    She  makes  it  strange ;  but  she  would  be  best 

pleased 
To  be  so  angered  with  another  letter.  [Exit. 

JuL   Nay,  would  I  were  as  angered  with  the  same  ! 

0  hateful  hands,  to  tear  such  loving  words ! 
Injurious  wasps !  to  feed  on  such  sweet  honey, 
And  kill  the  bees,  that  yield  it,  with  your  stings ! 
I'll  kiss  each  several  paper  for  amends. 

And  here  is  writ — kind  Julia ; — unkind  Julia ! 
As  in  revenge  of  thy  ingratitude, 

1  throw  thy  name  against  the  bruising  stones, 
Trampling  contemptuously  on  thy  disdain. 
Look,  here  is  writ — love-wounded  Proteus ; — 
Poor  wounded  name !  my  bosom,  as  a  bed, 

Shall  lodge  thee,  till  thy  wound  be  thoroughly  healed ; 

And  thus  I  search  it  with  a  sovereign  kiss. 

But  twice,  or  thrice,  was  Proteus  written  down : 

Be  calm,  good  wind,  blow  not  a  word  away, 

Till  I  have  found  each  letter  in  the  letter, 

Except  mine  own  name ;  that  some  whirlwind  bear 

Unto  a  rugged,  fearful,  hanging  rock, 

And  throw  it  thence  into  the  raging  sea ! 

Lo,  here  in  one  line  is  his  name  twice  writ, — 

Poor,  forlorn  Proteus,  passionate  Proteus, 

To  the  sweet  Julia  ; — that  I'll  tear  away ; 

And  yet  I  will  not,  sith 2  so  prettily 

He  couples  it  to  his  complaining  names : 

Thus  will  I  fold  them  one  upon  another ; 

Now  kiss,  embrace,  contend,  do  what  you  will. 

Re-enter  LUCETTA. 

Luc.   Madam, 

Dinner  is  ready,  and  your  father  stays. 
JuL   Well,  let  us  go. 
Luc.  What,  shall  these  papers  lie  like  telltales  here  ? 

1  Bustle,  stir.  2  Since. 


9-2          TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.       [ACT  I. 

Jul.    If  you  respect  them,  best  to  take  them  up. 

Luc.   Nay,  I  was  taken  up  for  laying  them  down : 
Yet  here  they  shall  not  lie,  for  catching  cold. 

Jul.    I  see  you  have  a  month's  mind  to  them. 

Luc.    Ay,  madam,  you  may  say  what  sights  you  see  , 
I  see  things  too,  although  you  judge  I  wink. 

Jul.    Come,  come,  will't  please  you  go  ?      [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III.     The    same.      A  Room  in  Antonio's 

House. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  PANTHINO. 

Ant.    Tell  me,  Panthino,  what  sad  talk  was  that, 
Wherewith  my  brother  held  you  in  the  cloister  ? 

Pant.    'Twas  of  his  nephew  Proteus,  your  son. 

Ant.    Why,  what  of  him  ? 

Pant.  He  wondered,  that  your  lordship 

Would  suffer  him  to  spend  his  youth  at  home ; 
While  other  men,  of  slender  reputation, 
Put  forth  their  sons  to  seek  preferment  out : 
Some,  to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortune  there  ; 
Some,  to  discover  islands  far  away  ; 
Some,  to  the  studious  universities. 
For  any,  or  for  all  these  exercises, 
He  said,  that  Proteus,  your  son,  was  meet ; 
And  did  request  me,  to  importune  you, 
To  let  him  spend  his  time  no  more  at  home, 
Which  would  be  great  impeachment 1  to  his  age, 
In  having  known  no  travel  in  his  youth. 

Ant.   Nor  need'st  thou  much  importune  me  to  that 
Whereon  this  month  I  have  been  hammering. 
I  have  considered  well  his  loss  of  time ; 
And  how7  he  cannot  be  a  perfect  man, 
Not  being  tried  and  tutored  in  the  world : 
Experience  is  by  industry  achieved, 
And  perfected  by  the  swift  course  of  time: 
Then,  tell  me,  whither  were  I  best  to  send  him  ? 

1  Reproach  or  imputation. 


SC.  III.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  93 

Pant.    I  think,  your  lordship  is  not  ignorant, 
How  his  companion,  youthful  Valentine, 
Attends  the  emperor  in  his  royal  court. 

Ant.    I  know  it  well. 

Pant.    'Twere  good,  I  think,  your  lordship  sent  him 

thither : 

There  shall  he  practise  tilts  and  tournaments, 
Hear  sweet  discourse,  converse  with  noblemen ; 
And  be  in  eye  of  every  exercise, 
Worthy  his  youth  and  nobleness  of  birth. 

Ant.    I  like  thy  counsel :  well  hast  thou  advised  • 
And,  that  thou  may'st  perceive  how  well  I  like  it, 
The  execution  of  it  shall  make  known ; 
Even  with  the  speediest  expedition 
I  will  despatch  him  to  the  emperor's  court. 

Pant.    To-morrow,    may   it   please   you,    Don   Al- 

phonso, 

With  other  gentlemen  of  good  esteem, 
Are  journeying  to  salute  the  emperor, 
And  to  commend  their  service  to  his  will. 

Ant.    Good  company ;  with  them  shall  Proteus  go  : 
And,  in  good  time, — now  will  we  break  with  him.1 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.    Sweet  love  !  sweet  lines  !  sweet  life  ! 
Here  is  her  hand,  the  agent  of  her  heart : 
Here  is  her  oath  for  love,  her  honor's  pawn : 
O,  that  our  fathers  would  applaud  our  loves, 
To  seal  our  happiness  with  their  consents ! 
O  heavenly  Julia ! 

Ant.    How  now  ?  what  letter  are  you  reading  there  ? 

Pro.    May't  please  your  lordship,  'tis  a  word  or  two 
Of  commendations  sent  from  Valentine, 
Delivered  by  a  friend  that  came  from  him. 

Ant.    Lend  me  the  letter ;  let  me  see  what  news. 

Pro.    There    is   no   news,    my   lord ;    but   that  he 

writes 
How  happily  he  lives,  how  well  beloved 

1  i.  e.  break  the  matter  to  him. 


94  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  1. 

And  daily  graced  by  the  emperor ; 

Wishing  me  with  him,  partner  of  his  fortune. 

Ant.    And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish  ? 

Pro.    As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will, 
And  not  depending  on  his  friendly  wish. 

Ant.    My  will  is  something  sorted  with  his  wish ; 
Muse 1  not  that  I  thus  suddenly  proceed ; 
For  what  I  will,  I  will,  and  there  an  end. 
I  am  resolved,  that  thou  shalt  spend  some  time 
With  Valentinus  in  the  emperor's  court ; 
What  maintenance  he  from  his  friends  receives, 
Like  exhibition 2  thou  shalt  have  from  me. 
To-morrow  be  in  readiness  to  go : 
Excuse  it  not,  for  I  am  peremptory. 

Pro.    My  lord,  I  cannot  be  so  soon  provided ; 
Please  you,  deliberate  a  day  or  two. 

Ant.    Look,  what  thou  want'st,  shall  be  sent  after 

thee  : 

No  more  of  stay  ;  to-morrow  thou  must  go. — 
Come  on,  Panthino ;  you  shall  be  employed 
To  hasten  on  his  expedition. 

[Exeunt  ANT.  and  PANT. 

Pro.    Thus  have  I   shunned    the    fire,   for  fear  of 

burning ; 

And  drenched  me  in  the  sea,  where  I  am  drowned : 
I  feared  to  show  my  father  Julia's  letter, 
Lest  he  should  take  exceptions  to  my  love  ; 
And  with  the  vantage  of  mine  own  excuse 
Hath  he  excepted  most  against  my  love. 
O,  how  this  spring  of  love  resembleth 

The  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day  ; 
Which  now  shows  all  the  beauty  of  the  sun, 

And  by  and  by  a  cloud  takes  all  away ! 

Re-enter  PANTHINO. 

Pant.    Sir  Proteus,  your  father  calls  for  you ; 
He  is  in  haste ;  therefore,  I  pray  you  go. 

1  i.  e.  wonder  not. 

2  Exhibition  is  allowance  of  money  ;  it  is  still  used  in  the  universities 
lor  a  stipend. 


SC.  I.]       TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.          95 

Pro.    Why,  this  it  is  !  my  heart  accords  thereto  ; 
And  yet  a  thousand  times  it  answers,  no.         [Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.     Milan.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  SPEED. 

Speed.    Sir,  your  glove. 

Val.   Not  mine  ;  my  gloves  are  on. 

Speed.   Why  then   this  may  be  yours,   for  this  is 
but  one.1 

Val.    Ha !  let  me  see  :  ay,  give  it  me,  it's  mine  : — 
Sweet  ornament  that  decks  a  thin0-  divine ! 
Ah  Silvia !  Silvia ! 

Speed.   Madam  Silvia !  madam  Silvia ! 

Val.    How  now,  sirrah  ? 

Speed.    She  is  not  within  hearing,  sir. 

Val.    Why,  sir,  who  bade  you  call  her  ? 

Speed.    Your  worship,  sir ;  or  else  I  mistook. 

Val.    Well,  you'll  still  be  too  forward. 

Speed.    And  yet  I  was  last  chidden  for  being  too 
slow. 

Val.    Go  to,   sir;    tell  me,   do   you   know  madam 
Silvia  ? 

Speed.    She  that  your  worship  loves  ? 

Val.   Why,  how  know  you  that  I  am  in  love  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  by  these  special  marks :  First,  you 
have  learned,  like  Sir  Proteus,  to  wreath  your  arms, 
like  a  male-content ;  to  relish  a  love-song,  like  a  robin- 
red-breast  ;  to  walk  alone,  like  one  that  had  the  pesti 
lence  ;  to  sigh,  like  a  school-boy  that  had  lost  his  A,  B, 
C  ;  to  weep,  like  a  young  wench  that  had  buried  her 

1  On  and  one  were  anciently  pronounced  alike,  and  frequently  writ 
ten  so. 


96  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IL 

grandam  ;  to  fast,  like  one  that  takes  diet ; l  to  watch, 
like  one  that  fears  robbing ;  to  speak  puling,  like  a 
beggar  at  Hollowmas.2  You  were  wont,  when  you 
laughed,  to  crow  like  a  cock ;  when  you  walked,  to 
walk  like  one  of  the  lions ;  when  you  fasted,  it  was 
presently  after  dinner ;  when  you  looked  sadly,  it  was 
for  want  of  money :  and  now  you  are  metamorphosed 
with  a  mistress,  that,  when  I  look  on  you,  I  can  hardly 
think  you  my  master. 

Val.    Are  all  these  things  perceived  in  me  ? 

Speed.    They  are  all  perceived  without  you. 

Val.    Without  me  ?     They  cannot. 

Speed.  Without  you !  nay,  that's  certain,  for,  with 
out  you  were  so  simple,  none  else  would :  but  you  are 
so  without  these  follies,  that  these  follies  are  within 
you,  and  shine  through  you  like  the  water  in  an  urinal ; 
that  not  an  eye,  that  sees  you,  but  is  a  physician  to 
comment  on  your  malady. 

Val.    But,  tell  me,  dost  thou  know  my  lady  Silvia  ? 

Speed.  She  that  you  gaze  on  so,  as  she  sits  at 
supper  ? 

Vol.    Hast  thou  observed  that  ?  even  she  I  mean. 

Speed.    Why,  sir,  I  know  her  not. 

Val.  Dost  thou  know  her  by  my  gazing  on  her,  and 
yet  know'st  her  not  ? 

Speed.    Is  she  not  hard-favored,  sir  ? 

Val.    Not  so  fair,  boy,  as  well  favored. 

Speed.    Sir,  I  know  that  well  enough. 

Vol.    What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Speed.  That  she  is  not  so  fair,  as  (of  you)  well- 
favored. 

Val.  I  mean,  that  her  beauty  is  exquisite,  but  her 
favor  infinite. 

Speed.  That's  because  the  one  is  painted,  and  the 
other  out  of  all  count. 

1  To  take  diet  is  to  be  under  a  regimen  for  a  disease. 

2  The  feast  of  All-hallows,  or  All  Saints,  at  which  time  the  poor  in 
Staffordshire  go  from  parish  to  parish  a  souling,  as  they  call  it ;  i.  e.  beg 
ging  and  puling,  for  soul  cakes,  and  singing  what  they  call  the  souler's 
song. 


SC.  I.]        TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.          97 

Vol.    How  painted  ?  and  how  out  of  count  ? 

Speed.  Marry,  sir,  so  painted  to  make  her  fair,  that 
no  man  counts  of  her  beauty. 

Veil.  How  esteem'st  thou  me  ?  I  account  of  her 
beauty. 

Speed.    You  never  saw  her  since  she  was  deformed. 

Vol.    How  long  hath  she  been  deformed  ? 

Speed.    Ever  since  you  loved  her. 

Vol.  I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  saw  her;  and 
still  I  see  her  beautiful. 

Speed.    If  you  love  her,  you  cannot  see  her. 

Vol.    Why? 

Speed.  Because  love  is  blind.  O,  that  you  had 
mine  eyes ;  or  your  own  eyes  had  the  lights  they  were 
wont  to  have,  when  you  chid  at  Sir  Proteus  for  going 
ungartered ! 1 

Vol.    What  should  I  see  then  ? 

Speed.  Your  own  present  folly,  and  her  passing  de 
formity  :  for  he,  being  in  love,  could  not  see  to  garter 
his  hose ;  and  you,  being  in  love,  cannot  see  to  put  on 
your  hose. 

Val.  Belike,  boy,  then  you  are  in  love ;  for  last 
morning  you  could  not  see  to  wipe  my  shoes. 

Speed.  True,  sir ;  I  was  in  love  with  my  bed :  I 
thank  you,  you  swinged  me  for  my  love,  which  makes 
me  the  bolder  to  chide  you  for  yours. 

Val.    In  conclusion,  I  stand  affected  to  her. 

Speed.  I  would  you  w^ere  set,2  so,  your  affection 
would  cease. 

Val.  Last  night  she  enjoined  me  to  write  some  lines 
to  one  she  loves. 

Speed.   And  have  you  ? 

Val.    I  have. 

Speed.    Are  they  not  lamely  writ  ? 

Val.   No,  boy,  but  as  well  as  I  can  do  them : — 
Peace,  here  she  comes. 

1  Going  ungartered  is  enumerated  by  Rosalind  as  one  of  the  undoubted 
marks  of  love,  in  As  You  Like  It,  iii.  2. 

2  Set,  for  seated,  in  opposition  to  stand  in  the  preceding  line. 

VOL.   I.  13 


98  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  II 

Enter  SILVIA. 

Speed.  O  excellent  motion  ! l  O  exceeding  puppet ! 
now  will  he  interpret  to  her. 

Veil.   Madam  and  mistress,  a  thousand  good-morrows. 

Speed.  O,  'give  you  good  even !  here's  a  million  of 
manners.  [Aside. 

Sil.    Sir  Valentine  and  servant,  to  you  two  thousand. 

Speed.    He  should  give  her  interest ;  and  she  gives 


it  him. 


Vol.    As  you  enjoined  me,  I  have  writ  your  letter 
Unto  the  secret,  nameless  friend  of  yours ; 
Which  I  was  much  unwilling  to  proceed  in, 
But  for  my  duty  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.    I  thank  you,  gentle  servant :   'tis  very  clerkly 2 
done. 

Vol.    Now  trust  me,  madam,  it  came  hardly  off; 
For,  being  ignorant  to  whom  it  goes, 
I  writ  at  random,  very  doubtfully. 

Sil.    Perchance  you    think   too    much  of  so  much 
pains  ? 

Vol.   No,  madam ;  so  it  stead  you,  I  will  write, 
Please  you  command,  a  thousand  times  as  much : 
And  yet, — 

Sil.    A  pretty  period  !     Well,  I  guess  the  sequel  ; 
And  yet  I  will  not  name  it : — and  yet  I  care  not ; — 
And  yet  take  this  again  ; — and  yet  I  thank  you  ; 
Meaning  henceforth  to  trouble  you  no  more. 

Speed.    And  yet  you  will ;  and  yet  another  yet. 

[Aside. 

Vol.    What  means  your  ladyship  ?  do  you  not  like  it  ? 

Sil.    Yes,  yes  ;  the  lines  are  very  quaintly  writ : 
But  since  unwillingly,  take  them  again ; 
Nay,  take  them. 

Veil.    Madam,  they  are  for  you. 

1  Motion  signified, in  Shakspeare's  time,  a  puppet-slioiv.     Speed  means 
to  say,  "  What  a  fine  puppet-show  shall  Ave  have  now  !     Here  is  the  prin 
cipal  puppet  to  whom  my  master  will  be  the  interpreter."     The  show-man 
was  then  frequently  called  the  interpreter. 

2  i.  e.  like  a  scholar. 


SC.  I.]        TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.          99 

Sil.    Ay,  ay  ;  you  writ  them,  sir,  at  my  request ; 
But  I  will  none  of  them  ;  they  are  for  you  : 
I  would  have  had  them  Avrit  more  movingly. 

VaL    Please  you,  I'll  write  your  ladyship  another. 

Sil.  And,  when  it's  writ,  for  my  sake  read  it  over : 
And,  if  it  please  you,  so  ;  if  not,  why,  so. 

VaL    If  it  please  me,  madam  !  what  then  ? 

Sil.    Why,  if  it  please  you,  take  it  for  your  labor ; 
And  so,  good-morrow,  servant.  [Exit  SILVIA. 

Speed.    O  jest  unseen,  inscrutable,  invisible, 
As  a  nose  on  a  man's  face,  or  a  weathercock  on  a 

steeple ! 

My  master  sues  to  her  ;  and  she  hath  taught  her  suitor, 
He  being  her  pupil,  to  become  her  tutor. 
O  excellent  device  !  was  there  ever  heard  a  better  ? 
That  my  master,  being  scribe,  to  himself  should  write 
the  letter  ? 

VaL    How  now,  sir  ?  what  are  you  reasoning:  with 

iro 
yourselr  r 

Speed.  Nay,  I  was  rhyming ;  'tis  you  that  have  the 
reason. 

VaL    To  do  what  ? 

Speed.    To  be  a  spokesman  from  madam  Silvia. 

VaL    To  whom  ? 

Speed.    To  yourself :  why,  she  wooes  you  by  a  figure. 

VaL    What  figure? 

Speed.    By  a  letter,  I  should  say. 

VaL    Why,  she  hath  not  writ  to  me  ? 

Speed.  What  need  she,  when  she  hath  made  you 
write  to  yourself?  Why,  do  you  not  perceive  the  jest  ? 

VaL   No,  believe  me. 

Speed.  No  believing  you  indeed,  sir :  But  did  you 
perceive  her  earnest  ? 

Vol.    She  gave  me  none,  except  an  angry  word. 

Speed.    Why,  she  hath  given  you  a  letter. 

VaL    That's  the  letter  I  writ  to  her  friend. 

Speed.  And  that  letter  hath  she  delivered,  and  there 
an  end. 

VaL    I  would,  it  were  no  worse. 

Speed.    I'll  warrant  you,  'tis  as  well : 


100  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  II 

For  often  have  you  urit  to  her ;  and  she,  in  modesty, 
Or  else  for  want  of  idle  time,  could  not  again  reply ; 
Or  fearing  else  some  messenger,  that  might  her  mind 

discover, 
Herself  hath  taught  her  love  himself  to  write  unto  her 

lover. 

All  this  I  speak  in  print ; l  for  in  print  I  found  it. — 
Why  muse  you,  sir  ?  'tis  dinner-time. 

Vol.    I  have  dined. 

Speed.  Ay,  but  hearken,  sir  :  though  the  chameleon 
Love  can  feed  on  the  air,  I  am  one  that  am  nourished  by 
my  victuals,  and  would  fain  have  meat :  O,  be  not  like 
your  mistress  ;  be  moved,  be  moved.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     Verona.     A  Room  in  Julia's  House. 


Enter  PROTEUS  and  JULIA. 

Pro.    Have  patience,  gentle  Julia. 

Jul.    I  must,  where  is  no  remedy. 

Pro.    When  possibly  I  can,  I  will  return. 

Jul.    If  you  turn  not,  you  will  return  the  sooner . 
Keep  this  remembrance  for  thy  Julia's  sake. 

[Giving  a  ring. 

Pro.    Why  then  we'll  make  exchange ;  he ;  e,  take 
-  you  this. 

Jul.    And  seal  the  bargain  with  a  holy  kiss. 

Pro.    Here  is  my  hand  for  my  true  constancy ; 
And  when  that  hour  o'erslips  me  in  the  day. 
Wherein  I  sigh  not,  Julia,  for  thy  sake, 
The  next  ensuing  hour  some  foul  mischance 
Torment  me  for  my  love's  forgetfulness ! 
My  father  stays  my  coming  :  answer  not : 
The  tide  is  now  :  nay,  not  the  tide  of  tears  ; 
That  tide  will  stay  me  longer  than  I  should ; 

[Exit  JULIA 
Julia,  farewell. — What !  gone  without  a  word  ! 

1  With  exactness. 


SC.  111.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  101 

Ay,  so  true  love  should  do :  it  cannot  speak ; 

For  truth  hath  better  deeds  than  words  to  grace  it. 

Enter  PANTHINO. 

Pant.    Sir  Proteus,  you  are  staid  for. 
Pro.    Go  ;  I  come,  I  come  : — 
Alas  !  this  parting  strikes  poor  lovers  dumb.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  LAUNCE,  leading  a  dog. 

Laun.  Nay,  'twill  be  this  hour  ere  I  have  done 
weeping ;  all  the  kind  of  the  Launces  have  this  very 
fault ;  I  have  received  my  proportion,  like  the  pro 
digious  son,  and  am  going  with  Sir  Proteus  to  the 
Imperial's  court.  I  think,  Crab  my  dog  be  the  sourest- 
uatured  dog  that  lives  :  my  mother  weeping,  my  father 
wailing,  my  sister  crying,  our  maid  howling,  our  cat 
wringing  her  hands,  and  all  our  house  in  a  great  per 
plexity,  yet  did  not  this  cruel-hearted  cur  shed  one 
tear :  he  is  a  stone,  a  very  pebble  stone,  and  has  no 
more  pity  in  him  than  a  dog ;  a  Jew  would  have  wept 
to  have  seen  our  parting.  Why,  my  grandam,  having 
no  eyes,  look  you,  wept  herself  blind  at  my  parting. 
Nay,  I'll  show  you  the  manner  of  it :  This  shoe  is  my 
father  : — no,  this  left  shoe  is  my  father  ; — no,  no,  this  left 
shoe  is  my  mother ; — nay,  that  cannot  be  so  neither ; 
yes,  it  is  so,  it  is  so  ;  it  hath  the  worser  sole  :  This  shoe, 
with  the  hole  in  it,  is  my  mother ;  and  this  my  father : 
A  vengeance  on't !  there  'tis  :  now,  sir,  this  staff  is  my 
sister ;  for,  look  you,  she  is  as  white  as  a  lily,  and  as 
small  as  a  wand  :  this  hat  is  Nan,  our  maid  ;  I  am  the 
dog  : — no,  the  dog  is  himself,  and  I  am  the  dog ; — oh, 
the  dog  is  me,  and  I  am  myself:  Ay,  so,  so.  Now  come 
I  to  my  father ;  Father,  your  blessing ;  now  should  not 
the  shoe  speak  a  word  for  weeping ;  now  should  I  kiss 
my  father ;  well,  he  weeps  on : — now  come  I  to  my 


102  TWO    GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA.  [ACT  II. 

mother,  (O,  that  she  could  speak  now !)  like  a  wood l 
woman  ; — well,  I  kiss  her  ; — why,  there  'tis  ;  here's  my 
mother's  breath  up  and  down :  now  come  I  to  my  sis 
ter  ;  mark  the  moan  she  makes :  now  the  dog  all  this 
while  sheds  not  a  tear,  nor  speaks  a  word  ;  but  see  how 
I  lay  the  dust  with  my  tears. 

Enter  PANTHINO. 

Pan.  Launce,  away,  away,  aboard ;  thy  master  is 
shipped,  and  thou  art  to  post  after  with  oars.  What's 
the  matter  ?  why  weepest  thou,  man  ?  Away,  ass ; 
you  will  lose  the  tide,  if  you  tarry  any  longer. 

Laun.  It  is  no  matter  if  the  ty'd  were  lost ;  for  it 
is  the  unkindest  ty'd  that  ever  any  man  ty'd. 

Pan.    What's  the  unkindest  tide  ? 

Laun.    Why,  he  that's  ty'd  here ;  Crab,  my  dog. 

Pan.  Tut,  man,  I  mean  thou'lt  lose  the  flood ;  and, 
in  losing  the  flood,  lose  thy  voyage ;  and,  in  losing  thy 
voyage,  lose  thy  master  ;  and,  in  losing  thy  master,  lose 
thy  service  ;  and  in  losing  thy  service, — W^hy  dost  thou 
stop  my  mouth  ? 

Laun.    For  fear  thou  should'st  lose  thy  tongue. 

Pan.    Where  should  I  lose  my  tongue  ? 

Laun.    In  thy  tale. 

Pan.    In  thy  tail  ? 

Laun.  Lose  the  tide,  and  the  voyage,  and  the  mas 
ter,  and  the  service  :  And  the  tide  ! — Why,  man,  if  the 
river  were  dry,  I  am  able  to  fill  it  with  my  tears ;  if 
the  wind  were  down,  I  could  drive  the  boat  with 
my  sighs. 

Pan.  Come,  come  away,  man ;  I  W7as  sent  to  call 
thee. 

Laun.    Sir,  call  me  what  thou  darest. 

Pan.   Wilt  thou  go  ? 

Laun.   Well,  I  will  go.  [Exeunt. 

l  Distracted. 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  103 


SCENE  IV.     Milan.    A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  VALENTINE,  SILVIA,  THURIO,  and  SPEED. 

Sil.    Servant — 

Vol.   Mistress  ? 

Speed,    Master,  Sir  Thurio  frowns  on  you. 

Vol.    Ay,  boy,  it's  for  love. 

Speed.   Not  of  you. 

Vol.    Of  my  mistress  then. 

Speed.    'Twere  good  you  knocked  him. 

Sil.    Servant,  you  are  sad. 

Vol.    Indeed,  madam,  I  seem  so. 

Thu.    Seem  you  that  you  are  not  ? 

Val    Haply  I  do. 

Thu.    So  do  counterfeits. 

Val.    So  do  you. 

Thu.    What  seem  I,  that  I  am  not  ? 

Val.    Wise. 

Thu.    What  instance  of  the  contrary  ? 

Val.    Your  folly. 

Thu.    And  how  quote  1  you  my  folly  ? 

Val.    I  quote  it  in  your  jerkin. 

Thu.    My  jerkin  is  a  doublet. 

Val.    Well,  then,  I'll  double  your  folly. 

Thu.    How? 

Sil.    What,  angry,  Sir  Thurio  ?  do  you  change  color  ? 

Val.  Give  him  leave,  madam ;  he  is  a  kind  of 
chameleon. 

Thu.  That  hath  more  mind  to  feed  on  your  blood, 
than  live  in  your  air. 

Val.    You  have  said,  sir. 

Thu.    Ay,  sir,  and  done  too,  for  this  time. 

Val.  I  know  it  well,  sir ;  you  always  end  ere  you 
begin. 

Sil.  A  fine  volley  of  words,  gentlemen,  and  quickly 
shot  off. 

1  To  quote  is  to  mark,  to  observe. 


104  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA.  [ACT  II. 

Vol.    'Tis  indeed,  madam  ;  we  thank  the  giver. 

Sil.   Who  is  that,  servant  ? 

Vol.    Yourself,  sweet  lady ;  for  you  gave  the  fire 
Sir  Thurio  borrows  his  wit  from  your  ladyship's  looks, 
and  spends  what  he  borrows,  kindly  in  your  company. 

Tint.  Sir,  if  you  spend  word  for  word  with  me,  I 
shall  make  your  wit  bankrupt. 

Vol.  I  know  it  well,  sir  :  you  have  an  exchequer  of 
words,  and,  I  think,  no  other  treasure  to  give  your  fol 
lowers  ;  for  it  appears  by  their  bare  liveries,  that  they 
live  by  your  bare  words. 

Sil.  No  more,  gentlemen,  no  more  ;  here  comes  my 
father. 

Enter  DUKE. 

Duke.   Now,  daughter  Silvia,  you  are  hard  beset. 
Sir  Valentine,  your  father's  in  good  health : 
What  say  you  to  a  letter  from  your  friends 
Of  much  good  news  ? 

Vol.    My  lord,  I  will  be  thankful 
To  any  happy  messenger  from  thence. 

Duke.    Know  you  Don  Antonio,  your  countryman  ? 

Vol.    Ay,  my  good  lord,  I  know  the  gentleman 
To  be  of  worth,  and  worthy  estimation, 
And  not  without  desert  so  well  reputed. 

Duke.    Hath  he  not  a  son  ? 

Vol.    Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  a  son,  that  well  deserves 
The  honor  and  regard  of  such  a  father. 

Duke.    You  know  him  well  ? 

Vol.    I  knew  him  as  myself;  for  from  our  infancy 
We  have  conversed,  and  spent  our  hours  together : 
And  though  myself  have  been  an  idle  truant, 
Omitting  the  sweet  benefit  of  time, 
To  clothe  mine  age  with  angel-like  perfection ; 
Yet  hath  Sir  Proteus,  for  that's  his  name, 
Made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days ; 
His  years  but  young,  but  his  experience  old ; 
His  head  unmellowed,  but  his  judgment  ripe ; 
And,  in  a  word,  (for  far  behind  his  worth 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  105 

Come  all  the  praises  that  I  now  bestow,) 
He  is  complete  in  feature,1  and  in  mind, 
With  all  good  grace  to  grace  a  gentleman. 

Duke.   Beshrew  2  me,  sir,  but,  if  he  make  this  good, 
He  is  as  worthy  for  an  empress'  love, 
As  meet  to  be  an  emperor's  counsellor. 
Well,  sir ;  this  gentleman  is  come  to  me, 
With  commendation  from  great  potentates  ; 
And  here  he  means  to  spend  his  time  a  while : 
I  think,  'tis  no  unwelcome  news  to  you. 

Val.    Should  I  have  wished  a  thing,  it  had  been  he. 

Duke.    Welcome  him  then  according  to  his  worth. 
Silvia,  I  speak  to  you  ;  and  you,  Sir  Thurio  : — 
For  Valentine,  I  need  not  'cite  him  to  it : 
I'll  send  him  hither  to  you  presently.          [Exit  DUKE. 

Val.    This  is  the  gentleman,  I  told  your  ladyship, 
Had  come  along  with  me,  but  that  his  mistress 
Did  hold  his  eyes  locked  in  her  crystal  looks. 

Sil.    Belike,  that  now  she  hath  enfranchised  them 
Upon  some  other  pawn  for  fealty. 

Vol.    Nay,  sure,   I  think,  she  holds   them  prisoners 
still. 

Sil.    Nay,  then  he  should  be  blind  ;  and,  being  blind, 
How  could  he  see  his  way  to  seek  out  you  ? 

Val.    Why,  lady,  love  hath  twenty  pair  of  eyes. 

Thu.    They  say,  that  love  hath  not  an  eye  at  all. 

Val.    To  see  such  lovers,  Thurio,  as  yourself; 
Upon  a  homely  object  love  can  wink. 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Sil.    Have  done,  have  done ;  here  comes  the  gen 
tleman. 
Val.   Welcome,  dear  Proteus  ! — Mistress,  I  beseech 

you, 
Confirm  his  welcome  with  some  special  favor. 

Sil.    His  worth  is  warrant  for  his  welcome  hither, 
If  this  be  he  you  oft  have  wished  to  hear  from. 

1  Feature  in   the  Poet's  age  was  often  used  for  form  or  person  in 
general. 

2  Equivalent  to  ill  betide  me. 

VOL.   I.  14 


106  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF   VERONA.  [ACT  II. 

Vol.    Mistress,  it  is  :  sweet  lady,  entertain  him 
To  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.    Too  low  a  mistress  for  so  high  a  servant. 

Pro.   Not  so,  sweet  lady ;  but  too  mean  a  servant 
To  have  a  look  of  such  a  worthy  mistress. 

VaL    Leave  off  discourse  of  disability : — 
Sweet  lady,  entertain  him  for  your  servant. 

Pro.    My  duty  will  I  boast  of,  nothing  else. 

Sil.    And  duty  never  yet  did  want  his  meed ; 
Servant,  you  arc  welcome  to  a  worthless  mistress. 

Pro.    I'll  die  on  him  that  says  so,  but  yourself. 

Sil.    That  you  are  welcome  ? 

Pro.  No  ;  that  you  are  worthless. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.    Madam,    my   lord   your    father   would    speak 

with  you. 

Sil.    I'll  wait  upon  his  pleasure.  [Exit  Servant. 

Come,  Sir  Thurio, 

Go  with  me  : — Once  more,  new  servant,  welcome  : 
I'll  leave  you  to  confer  of  home  affairs ; 
When  you  have  done,  we  look  to  hear  from  you. 
Pro.    We'll  both  attend  upon  your  ladyship. 

[Exeunt  SILVIA,  THURIO,  and  SPEED. 
Vol.   Now,  tell  me,  how  do  all  from  whence  you 

came  ? 
Pro.    Your  friends  are  well,  and  have  them  much 

commended. 

Veil.    And  how  do  yours  ? 
Pro.    I  left  them  all  in  health. 
Val.    How  does  your  lady  ?  and  how  thrives  your 

love  ? 

Pro.    My  tales  of  love  were  wont  to  weary  you  ; 
I  know  you  joy  not  in  a  love-discourse. 

Val.    Ay,  Proteus,  but  that  life  is  altered  now : 
I  have  done  penance  for  contemning  love ; 
Whose  high  imperious  thoughts  have  punished  me 
With  bitter  fasts,  with  penitential  groans, 
With  nightly  tears,  and  daily  heart-sore  sighs ; 
For,  in  revenge  of  my  contempt  of  love, 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  107 

Love  hath  chased  sleep  from  my  enthralled  eyes, 

And  made  them  watchers  of  mine  own  heart's  sorrow. 

O,  gentle  Proteus,  love's  a  mighty  lord ; 

And  hath  so  humbled  me,  as,  I  confess, 

There  is  no  wo x  to  his  correction, 

Nor,  to  his  service,  no  such  joy  on  earth ! 

Now,  no  discourse,  except  it  be  of  love  : 

Now  can  I  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and  sleep, 

Upon  the  very  naked  name  of  love. 

Pro.    Enough  ;  I  read  your  fortune  in  your  eye  : 
Was  this  the  idol  that  you  worship  so  ? 

Vol.    Even  she ;  and  is  she  not  a  heavenly  saint  ? 

Pro.    No  ;  but  she's  an  earthly  paragon. 

Vol.    Call  her  divine. 

Pro.    I  will  not  flatter  her. 

Vol.    O,  flatter  me  ;  for  love  delights  in  praises. 

Pro.    When  I  was  sick,  you  gave  me  bitter  pills ; 
And  I  must  minister  the  like  to  you. 

Vol.    Then  speak  the  truth  by  her  ;  if  not  divine, 
Yet  let  her  be  a  principality,2 
Sovereign  to  all  the  creatures  on  the  earth. 

Pro.    Except  my  mistress. 

Vol.    Swreet,  except  not  any, 
Except  thou  wilt  except  against  my  love. 

Pro.    Have  I  not  reason  to  prefer  mine  own  ? 

Val.    And  I  will  help  thee  to  prefer  her  too : 
She  shall  be  dignified  with  this  high  honor, — 
To  bear  my  lady's  train ;  lest  the  base  earth 
Should  from  her  vesture  chance  to  steal  a  kiss, 
And,  of  so  great  a  favor  growing  proud, 
Disdain  to  root  the  summer-swelling  flower, 
And  make  rough  winter  everlastingly. 

Pro.    Why,  Valentine,  what  braggardism  is  this  ? 

Val.    Pardon  me,  Proteus :  all  I  can,  is  nothing 
To  her,  whose  worth  makes  other  worthies  nothing ; 
She  is  alone. 

Pro.    Then  let  her  alone. 

1  JVb  ivo,  no  misery  that  can  be  compared  to  the  punishment  inflicted 
by  love. 

2  A  principality  is  an  angel  of  the  first  order. 


108  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  II. 

Vol.    Not  for  the  world :    why,  man,  she  is  mine 

own  ; 

And  I  as  rich  in  having  such  a  jewel, 
As  twenty  seas,  if  all  their  sand  were  pearl, 
The  water  nectar,  and  the  rocks  pure  gold. 
Forgive  me,  that  I  do  not  dream  on  thee, 
Because  thou  seest  me  dote  upon  my  love. 
My  foolish  rival,  that  her  father  likes, 
Only  for  his  possessions  are  so  huge, 
Is  gone  with  her  along ;  and  1  must  after, 
For  love,  thou  knoAv'st,  is  full  of  jealousy. 

Pro.    But  she  loves  you? 

Vol.  Ay,  and  we  are  betrothed ; 

Nay,  more,  our  marriage  hour, 
With  all  the  cunning  manner  of  our  flight, 
Determined  of:  how  I  must  climb  her  window; 
The  ladder  made  of  cords  :  and  all  the  means 
Plotted  ;  and  'greed  on,  for  my  happiness. 
Good  Proteus,  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
In  these  affairs  to  aid  me  with  thy  counsel. 

Pro.    Go  on  before  ;  I  shall  inquire  you  forth  : 
I  must  unto  the  road,  to  disembark 
Some  necessaries  that  I  needs  must  use  ; 
And  then  I'll  presently  attend  you. 

Val.    Will  you  make  haste  ? 

pro,    I  will._  [E 

Even  as  one  heat  another  heat  expels, 

Or  as  one  nail  by  strength  drives  out  another, 

So  the  remembrance  of  my  former  love 

Fs  by  a  newer  object  quite  forgotten. 

Is  it  her  mien,  or  Valentinus'  praise, 

Her  true  perfection,  or  my  false  transgression, 

That  makes  me,  reasonless,  to  reason  thus  ? 

She's  fair  ;  and  so  is  Julia,  that  I  love  ; — 

That  I  did  love,  for  now  my  love  is  thawed ; 

Which,  like  a  waxen  image,  'gainst  a  fire, 

Bears  no  impression  of  the  thing  it  was. 

Methinks,  my  zeal  to  Valentine  is  cold  ; 

And  that  I  love  him  not,  as  I  was  wont: 

O !  but  I  love  his  lady,  too,  too  much ; 


SC.  V.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA.  109 

And  that's  the  reason  I  love  him  so  little. 

How  shall  I  dote  on  her  with  more  advice,1 

That  thus  without  advice  begin  to  love  her  ? 

'Tis  but  her  picture  I  have  jet  beheld, 

And  that  hath  dazzled  my  reason's  light  ; 

But  when  I  look  on  her  perfections, 

There  is  no  reason  but  I  shall  be  blind. 

If  I  can  check  my  erring  love,  I  will ; 

If  not,  to  compass  her  I'll  use  my  skill.  [Exit. 


SCENE  V.     The  same.     A  Street. 

Enter  SPEED  and  LAUNCE. 

Speed.  Launce !  by  mine  honesty,  welcome  to 
Milan. 

Laun.  Forswear  not  thyself,  sweet  youth  ;  for  I  am 
not  welcome.  I  reckon  this  always — that  a  man  is 
never  undone,  till  he  be  hanged ;  nor  never  welcome 
to  a  place,  till  some  certain  shot  be  paid,  and  the 
hostess  say,  welcome. 

Speed.  Come  on,  you  mad-cap,  I'll  to  the  ale-house 
with  you  presently ;  where,  for  one  shot  of  five  pence 
thou  shalt  have  five  thousand  welcomes.  But,  sirrah, 
how  did  thy  master  part  with  madam  Julia  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  after  they  closed  in  earnest,  they 
parted  very  fairly  in  jest. 

Speed.    But  shall  she  marry  him  ? 

Laun.   No. 

Speed.    How  then  ?  shall  he  marry  her  ? 

Laun.    No,  neither. 

Speed.   What,  are  they  broken  ? 

Laun.    No,  they  are  both  as  whole  as  a  fish. 

Speed.    Why  then,  how  stands  the  matter  with  them  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  thus ;  when  it  stands  well  with  him, 
it  stands  well  with  her. 

Speed.    What  an  ass  art  thou  !  I  understand  thee  not. 

1  i.  e.  on  further  knowledge,  on  better  consideration. 


110  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  II. 

Laun.  What  a  block  art  thou,  that  thou  canst  not  ? 
My  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.    What  thou  say'st  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  and  what  I  do  too:  look  thee  I'll  but 
lean,  and  my  staff  understands  me. 

Speed.    It  stands  under  thee,  indeed. 

Laun.    Why,  stand  under  and  understand  is  all  one. 

Speed.    But  tell  me  true,  will't  be  a  match  ? 

Laun.  Ask  my  dog :  if  he  say,  ay,  it  will ;  if  he 
say,  no,  it  will ;  if  he  shake  his  tail,  and  say  nothing, 
it  will. 

Speed.    The  conclusion  is  then,  that  it  will. 

Laun.  Thou  shalt  never  get  such  a  secret  from  me, 
but  by  a  parable. 

Speed.  'Tis  well  that  I  get  it  so.  But,  Launce, 
how  say'st  thou,  that  my  master  is  become  a  notable 
lover  ? 

Laun.    I  never  knew  him  otherwise. 

Speed.    Than  how  ? 

Laun.    A  notable  lubber,  as  thou  reportest  him  to  be. 

Speed.    Why,  thou  whoreson  ass,  thou  mistakest  me. 

Laun.  Why,  fool,  I  meant  not  thee  ;  I  meant  thy 
master. 

Speed.    I  tell  thee,  my  master  is  become  a  hot  lover. 

Laun.  Why,  I  tell  thee,  I  care  not  though  he  burn 
himself  in  love.  If  thou  wilt  go  with  me  to  the  ale 
house,  so  ;  if  not,  thou  art  a  Hebrew,  a  Jew,  and  not 
worth  the  name  of  a  Christian. 

Speed.    Why? 

Laun.  Because  thou  hast  not  so  much  charity  in 
thee,  as  to  go  to  the  ale1  with  a  Christian.  Wilt 
thou  go  ? 

Speed.    At  thy  service.  [Exeunt. 

1  Ales  were  merry  meetings  instituted  in  country  places. 


SC.  VI.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  Ill 


SCENE   VI.     The  same.       An  Apartment    in    the 

Palace. 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.    To  leave  my  Julia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 
To  love  fair  Silvia,  shall  I  be  forsworn ; 
To  wrong  my  friend,  I  shall  be  much  forsworn ; 
And  even  that  power,  which  gave  me  first  my  oath, 
Provokes  me  to  this  threefold  perjury. 
Love  bade  me  swear,  and  love  bids  me  forswear : 

0  sweet  suggesting 1  love,  if  thou  hast  sinned, 
Teach  me,  thy  tempted  subject,  to  excuse  it. 
At  first  I  did  adore  a  twinkling  star, 

But  now  I  worship  a  celestial  sun. 

Unheedful  vows  may  needfully  be  broken : 

And  he  wants  wit,  that  wants  resolved  will 

To  learn  his  wit  to  exchange  the  bad  for  better. — 

Fie,  fie,  unreverend  tongue !  to  call  her  bad, 

Whose  sovereignty  so  oft  thou  hast  preferred 

With  twenty  thousand  soul-confirming  oaths. 

1  cannot  leave  to  love,  and  yet  I  do  ; 

But  there  I  leave  to  love,  where  I  should  love. 

Julia  I  lose,  and  Valentine  I  lose : 

If  I  keep  them,  I  needs  must  lose  myself; 

If  I  lose  them,  thus  find  I  by  their  loss, 

For  Valentine,  myself;  for  Julia,  Silvia. 

I  to  myself  am  dearer  than  a  friend ; 

For  love  is  still  most  precious  in  itself: 

And  Silvia,  witness  heaven,  that  made  her  fair ! 

Shows  Julia  but  a  swarthy  Ethiope. 

I  will  forget  that  Julia  is  alive, 

Remembering  that  my  love  to  her  is  dead ; 

And  Valentine  I'll  hold  an  enemy, 

Aiming  at  Silvia,  as  a  sweeter  friend. 

I  cannot  now  prove  constant  to  myself, 

Without  some  treachery  used  to  Valentine  : — 

1  To  suggest,  in  the  language  of  our  ancestors,  was  to  tempt. 


112  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  II. 

This  night,  he  meaneth  with  a  corded  ladder 

To  climb  celestial  Silvia's  chamber-window ; 

Myself  in  counsel,  his  competitor : 1 

Now  presently  I'll  give  her  father  notice 

Of  their  disguising,  and  pretended 2  flight ; 

Who, — all  enraged,  will  banish  Valentine  ; 

For  Thurio,  he  intends,  shall  wed  his  daughter  : 

But,  Valentine  being  gone,  I'll  quickly  cross, 

By  some  sly  trick,  blunt  Thurio's  dull  proceeding. 

Love,  lend  me  wings  to  make  my  purpose  swift, 

As  thou  hast  lent  me  wit  to  plot  this  drift !  [Exit. 

SCENE  VII.     Verona.     A  Room  in  Julia's  House. 

Enter  JULIA  and  LUCETTA. 

Jul.    Counsel,  Lucetta ;  gentle  girl,  assist  me  ! 
And,  e'en  in  kind  love,  I  do  conjure  thee, — 
Who  art  the  table  wherein  all  my  thoughts 
Are  visibly  charactered  and  engraved, — 
To  lesson  me ;  and  tell  me  some  good  mean, 
How,  with  my  honor,  I  may  undertake 
A  journey  to  my  loving  Proteus. 

Luc.    Alas  !  the  way  is  wearisome  and  long. 

Jul.    A  true-devoted  pilgrim  is  not  weary 
To  measure  kingdoms  with  his  feeble  steps ; 
Much  less  shall  she,  that  hath  love's  wings  to  fly ; 
And  when  the  flight  is  made  to  one  so  dear, 
Of  such  divine  perfection,  as  Sir  Proteus. 

Luc.    Better  forbear,  till  Proteus  make  return. 

Jul.    O,  know'st  thou  not,  his  looks  are  my  soul's 

food  ? 

Pity  the  dearth  that  I  have  pined  in, 
By  longing  for  that  food  so  long  a  time. 
Didst  thou  but  know  the  inly  touch  of  love, 
Thou  would'st  as  soon  go  kindle  fire  wdth  snow, 
As  seek  to  quench  the  fire  of  love  with  words. 

1  i.  e.  myself,  who  am  his  competitor,  hcing  admitted  to  his  counsel 
Competitor  here  means  confederate. 

2  Proposed  or  intended  flight. 


SC.  VII.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  113 

Luc.    I  do  not  seek  to  quench  jour  love's  hot  fire  ; 
But  qualify  the  fire's  extreme  rage, 
Lest  it  should  burn  above  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Jul.    The  more  thou  dam'st  it  up,  the  more  it  burns  ; 
The  current,  that  with  gentle  murmur  glides, 
Thou  know'st,  being  stopped,  impatiently  doth  rage ; 
But,  when  his  fair  course  is  not  hindered, 
He  makes  sweet  music  with  th'  enameled  stones, 
Giving  a  gentle  kiss  to  every  sedge 
He  overtaketh  in  his  pilgrimage ; 
And  so  by  many  winding  nooks  he  strays, 
With  willing  sport  to  the  wild  ocean. 
Then  let  me  go,  and  hinder  not  my  course : 
I'll  be  as  patient  as  a  gentle  stream, 
And  make  a  pastime  of  each  weary  step, 
Till  the  last  step  have  brought  me  to  my  love ; 
And  there  I'll  rest,  as,  after  much  turmoil, 
A  blessed  soul  doth  in  Elysium. 

Luc.   But  in  what  habit  will  you  go  along  ? 

Jul.    Not  like  a  woman  ;  for  I  would  prevent 
The  loose  encounters  of  lascivious  men : 
Gentle  Lucetta,  fit  me  with  such  weeds 
As  may  beseem  some  well-reputed  page. 

Luc.    Why  then  your  ladyship  must  cut  your  hair. 

Jul.    No,  girl ;  I'll  knit  it  up  in  silken  strings, 
With  twenty  odd-conceited  true-love  knots ; 
To  be  fantastic  may  become  a  youth 
Of  greater  time  than  I  shall  show  to  be. 

Luc.    What    fashion,    madam,    shall   I    make   your 
breeches  ? 

Jul.    That  fits  as  well,  as — "  tell  me,  good  my  lord, 
What  compass  will  you  wear  your  farthingale  ? '' 
Why,  even  what  fashion  thou  best  lik'st,  Lucetta. 

Luc.    You  must  needs  have  them  with  a  cod-piece, 
madam. 

Jul.    Out,  out,  Lucetta ;  that  will  be  ill  favored. 

Luc.    A  round  hose,  madam,  now's  not  worth  a  pin, 
Unless  you  have  a  cod-piece  to  stick  pins  on. 

Jul.    Lucetta,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  let  me  have 
What  thou  think'st  meet,  and  is  most  mannerly : 
VOL.  i.  15 


114  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  II. 

But  tell  me,  wench,  how  will  the  world  repute  me, 
For  undertaking  so  unstaid  a  journey  ? 
I  fear  me,  it  will  make  me  scandalized. 

Luc.    If  you  think  so,  then  stay  at  home,  and  go  not. 

Jul.    Nay,  that  I  will  not. 

Luc.    Then  never  dream  on  infamy,  but  go. 
If  Proteus  like  your  journey,  when  you  come, 
No  matter  who's  displeased,  when  you  are  gone : 
I  fear  me,  he  will  scarce  be  pleased  withal. 

Jul.    That  is  the  least,  Lucetta,  of  my  fear  : 
A  thousand  oaths,  an  ocean  of  his  tears, 
And  instances  of  infinite  of  love, 
Warrant  me  welcome  to  my  Proteus. 

Luc.    All  these  are  servants  to  deceitful  men. 

Jul.    Base  men,  that  use  them  to  so  base  effect ! 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth : 
His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles ; 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate ; 
His  tears,  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart  ; 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud,  as  heaven  from  earth. 

Luc.    Pray  heaven,  he  prove  so,  when  you  come  to 
him ! 

Jul.    Now,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  do  him  not  that  wrong. 
To  bear  a  hard  opinion  of  his  truth ; 
Only  dessrve  my  love,  by  loving  him  ; 
And  presently  go  with  me  to  my  chamber, 
To  take  a  note  of  what  I  stand  in  need  of, 
To  furnish  me  upon  my  longing  *  journey. 
All  that  is  mine  I  leave  at  thy  dispose, 
My  goods,  my  lands,  my  reputation ; 
Only,  in  htiu  thereof,  despatch  me  hence : 
Come,  answer  not,  but  to  it  presently ; 
1  am  impauent  of  my  tarriance.  [Exeunt. 

A  journey  which  she  shall  pass  in  longing. 


SC.  I.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  115 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.     Milan.     An  Anteroom  in   the    Duke's 

Palace. 

Enter  DUKE,  THURIO,  and  PROTEUS. 

Duke.    Sir  Thurio,  give  us  leave,  I  pray,  awhile ; 
We  have  some  secrets  to  confer  about. 

[Exit  THURIO. 
Now,  tell  me,  Proteus,  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Pro.    My  gracious  lord,  that  which  I  would  discover, 
The  law  of  friendship  bids  me  to  conceal : 
But,  when  I  call  to  mind  your  gracious  favors 
Done  to  me,  undeserving  as  I  am, 
My  duty  pricks  me  on  to  utter  that 
Which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from  me. 
Know,  worthy  prince,  Sir  Valentine,  my  friend, 
This  night  intends  to  steal  away  your  daughter  ; 
Myself  am  one  made  privy  to  the  plot. 
I  know  you  have  determined  to  bestow  her 
On  Thurio,  whom  your  gentle  daughter  hates ; 
And  should  she  thus  be  stolen  away  from  you, 
It  would  be  much  vexation  to  your  age. 
Thus,  for  my  duty's  sake,  I  rather  chose 
To  cross  my  friend  in  his  intended  drift, 
Than,  by  concealing  it,  heap  on  your  head 
A  pack  of  sorrows,  which  would  press  you  down, 
Being  unpre  vented,  to  your  timeless  grave. 

Duke.    Proteus,  I  thank  thee  for  thine  honest  care, 
Which  to  requite,  command  me  while  I  live. 
This  love  of  theirs  myself  have  often  seen, 
Haply,  when  they  have  judged  me  fast  asleep ; 
And  oftentimes  have  purposed  to  forbid 
Sir  Valentine  her  company,  and  my  court : 
But,  fearing  lest  my  jealous  aim1  might  err, 
And  so  unworthily  disgrace  the  man, 

1  i.  e.  guess. 


116  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  III 

(A  rashness  that  I  ever  yet  have  shunned,) 
I  gave  him  gentle  looks ;  thereby  to  find 
That  which  thyself  hast  now  disclosed  to  me. 
And,  that  thou  may'st  perceive  my  fear  of  this, 
Knowing  that  tender  youth  is  soon  suggested,1 
I  nightly  lodge  her  in  an  upper  tower, 
The  key  whereof  myself  have  ever  kept ; 
And  thence  she  cannot  be  conveyed  away. 

Pro.    Know,  noble  lord,  they  have  devised  a  mean 
How  he  her  chamber-window  will  ascend, 
And  with  a  corded  ladder  fetch  her  down ; 
For  which  the  youthful  lover  now  is  gone, 
And  this  way  comes  he  with  it  presently ; 
Where,  if  it  please  you,  you  may  intercept  him. 
But,  good  my  lord,  do  it  so  cunningly, 
That  my  discovery  be  not  aimed  at ; 
For  love  of  you,  not  hate  unto  my  friend, 
Hath  made  me  publisher  of  this  pretence.2 

Duke.    Upon  mine  honor,  he  shall  never  know 
That  I  had  any  light  from  thee  of  this. 

Pro.    Adieu,  my  lord  ;  Sir  Valentine  is  coming. 

[Exit. 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

Duke.    Sir  Valentine,  whither  awray  so  fast  ? 

Vol.    Please  it  your  grace,  there  is  a  messenger 
That  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends, 
And  I  am  going  to  deliver  them. 

Duke.    Be  they  of  much  import  ? 

Vol.    The  tenor  of  them  doth  but  signify 
My  health,  and  happy  being  at  your  court. 

Duke.    Nay,  then  no  matter ;  stay  with  me  a  while  ; 
1  am  to  break  with  thee  of  some  affairs, 
That  touch  me  near,  wherein  thou  must  be  secret. 
'Tis  not  unknown  to  thee,  that  I  have  sought 
To  match  my  friend,  Sir  Thurio,  to  my  daughter. 

Vol.    I  know  it  well,  my  lord  ;  and,  sure,  the  match 
Were  rich  and  honorable  ;  besides,  the  gentleman 

1   Tempted.  ~  i.  c.  design. 


SC.  I.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF   VERONA.  117 

Is  full  of  virtue,  bounty,  worth,  and  qualities 
Beseeming  such  a  wife  as  your  fair  daughter : 
Cannot  your  grace  win  her  to  fancy  him  ? 

Duke.    No,  trust  me  ;  she  is  peevish,  sullen,  froward, 
Proud,  disobedient,  stubborn,  lacking  duty ; 
Neither  regarding  that  she  is  my  child, 
Nor  fearing  me  as  if  I  were  her  father : 
And,  may  1  say  to  thee,  this  pride  of  hers, 
Upon  advice,  hath  drawn  my  love  from  her ; 
And  where  1  I  thought  the  remnant  of  mine  age 
Should  have  been  cherished  by  her  childlike  duty, 
I  now  am  full  resolved  to  take  a  wife, 
And  turn  her  out  to  who  will  take  her  in : 
Then  let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding-dower ; 
For  me  and  my  possessions  she  esteems  not. 

VaL    What  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do  in  this  ? 

Duke.    There  is  a  lady,  sir,  in  Milan,  here, 
Whom  I  affect ;  but  she  is  nice,  and  coy, 
And  nought  esteems  my  aged  eloquence  : 
Now,  therefore,  would  1  have  thee  to  my  tutor, 
(For  long  agone  I  have  forgot  to  court : 
Besides,  the  fashion  of  the  time  is  changed :) 
How,  and  which  way,  I  may  bestow  myself, 
To  be  regarded  in  her  sun-bright  eye. 

Val.    Win  her  with  gifts,  if  she  respect  not  words ; 
Dumb  jewels  often,  in  their  silent  kind, 
More  than  quick  words,  do  move  a  woman's  mind. 

Duke.    But  she  did  scorn  a  present  that  I  sent  her. 

Val.    A  woman  sometimes  scorns  what  best  con 
tents  her : 

Send  her  another  ;  never  give  her  o'er ; 
For  scorn  at  first  makes  after-love  the  more. 
If  she  do  frown,  'tis  not  in  hate  of  you, 
But  rather  to  beget  more  love  in  you : 
If  she  do  chide,  'tis  not  to  have  you  gone ; 
For  why,  the  fools  are  mad,  if  left  alone. 
Take  no  repulse,  whatever  she  doth  say : 
For,  get  you  gone,  she  doth  not  mean,  away : 

1  For  whereas,  often  used  by  old  writers. 


118  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  III. 

Flatter,  and  praise,  commend,  extol  their  graces  ; 
Though  ne'er  so  black,  say,  they  have  angels'  faces. 
That  man  that  hath  a  tongue,  I  say,  is  no  man, 
If  with  his  tongue  he  cannot  win  a  woman. 

Duke.    But  she  I  mean,  is  promised  by  her  friends 
Unto  a  youthful  gentleman  of  worth  ; 
And  kept  severely  from  resort  of  men, 
That  no  man  hath  access  by  day  to  her. 

Vol.    Why  then  I  w:ould  resort  to  her  by  night. 

Duke.    Ay,  but  the  doors  be  locked,  and  keys  kept 

safe, 
That  no  man  hath  recourse  to  her  by  night. 

Vol.    What  lets,1  but  one  may  enter  at  her  window  ? 

Duke.    Her  chamber  is  aloft,  far  from  the  ground  ; 
And  built  so  shelving  that  one  cannot  climb  it 

o 

Without  apparent  hazard  of  his  life. 

Val.    Why  then,  a  ladder,  quaintly  made  of  cords, 
To  cast  up  with  a  pair  of  anchoring  hooks, 
Would  serve  to  scale  another  Hero's  tower, 
So  bold  Leander  would  adventure  it. 

Duke.    Now,  as  thou  art  a  gentleman  of  blood, 
Advise  me  where  I  may  have  such  a  ladder. 

Val.    When  would  you  use  it  ?  pray,  sir,  tell  me  that. 

Duke.    This  very  night ;  for  love  is  like  a  child, 
That  longs  for  every  thing  that  he  can  come  by. 

Val.    By  seven  o'clock  I'll  get  you  such  a  ladder. 

Duke.    But,  hark  thee  ;  I  will  go  to  her  alone  ; 
How  shall  I  best  convey  the  ladder  thither  ? 

Val.    It  will  be  light,  my  lord,  that  you  may  bear  it 
Under  a  cloak  that  is  of  any  length. 

Duke.    A  cloak  as  long  as  thine  will  serve  the  turn  ? 

Val.    Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.  Then  let  me  see  thy  cloak ; 

I'll  get  me  one  of  such  another  length. 

Val.    Why,  any  cloak  will  serve  the  turn,  my  lord. 

Duke.    How  shall  I  fashion  me  to  wear  a  cloak  ? — 
I  pray  thee,  let  me  feel  thy  cloak  upon  me. — 
What  letter  is  this  same  ?     What's  here  ? — To  Silvia! 

1  i.  e.  hinders. 


SC.  I.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  119 

And  here  an  engine  fit  for  my  proceeding  ? 

I'll  be  so  bold  to  break  the  seal  for  once.  [Reads. 

My  thoughts  do  harbor  with,  my  Silvia  nightly ; 

And  slaves  they  are  to  me,  that  send  them  flying : 
O,  could  their  master  come  and  go  as  lightly, 

Himself  would  lodge  where  senseless  they  are  lying. 
My  herald  thoughts  in  thy  pure  bosom  rest  them  ; 

While  I,  their  king,  that  thither  them  importune, 
Do  curse  the  grace  that  with  such  grace  hath  blessed 
them, 

Because  myself  do  want  my  servants'1  fortune  : 
I  curse  myself,  for  they  are  sent  by  me, 
That  they  should  harbor  where  their  lord  should  be. 
What's  here  ? 
Silvia,  this  night  I  will  enfranchise  thee  ! 

'Tis  so ;  and  here's  the  ladder  for  the  purpose. — 

Why,  Phaeton  (for  thou  art  Merops'  son,) 

Wilt  thou  aspire  to  guide  the  heavenly  car, 

And  with  thy  daring  folly  burn  the  world  ? 

Wrilt  thou  reach  stars  because  they  shine  on  thee  ? 

Go,  base  intruder  !  over-weening  slave  ! 

Bestow  thy  fawning  smiles  on  equal  mates ; 

And  think  my  patience,  more  than  thy  desert, 

Is  privilege  for  thy  departure  hence : 

Thank  me  for  this,  more  than  for  all  the  favors 

Which,  all  too  much,  I  have  bestowed  on  thee. 

But  if  thou  linger  in  my  territories 

Longer  than  swiftest  expedition 

Will  give  thee  time  to  leave  our  royal  court, 

By  heaven,  my  wrath  shall  far  exceed  the  love 

I  ever  bore  my  daughter,  or  thyself. 

Be  gone,  I  will  not  hear  thy  vain  excuse ; 

But,  as  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  make  speed  from  hence. 

[Exit  DUKE. 

Vol.    And  why  not  death,  rather  than  living  tor 
ment  ? 

To  die,  is  to  be  banished  from  myself; 
And  Silvia  is  myself:  banished  from  her, 
Is  self  from  self ;  a  deadly  banishment ! 


120  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA.  [ACT  III. 

What  light  is  light,  if  Silvia  be  not  seen  ? 
What  joy  is  joy,  if  Silvia  be  not  by  ? 
Unless  it  be  to  think  that  she  is  by, 
And  feed  upon  the  shadow  of  perfection : 
Except  I  be  by  Silvia  in  the  night, 
There  is  no  music  in  the  nightingale  ; 
Unless  I  look  on  Silvia  in  the  day, 
There  is  no  day  for  me  to  look  upon : 
She  is  my  essence  ;  and  I  leave  to  be, 
If  I  be  not  by  her  fair  influence 
Fostered,  illumined,  cherished,  kept  alive. 
I  fly  not  death,  to  fly  his  deadly  doom ; l 
Tarry  I  here,  I  but  attend  on  death ; 
But,  fly  I  hence,  I  fly  away  from  life. 

Enter  PROTEUS  and  LAUNCE. 

Pro.    Run,  boy,  run,  run,  and  seek  him  out. 

Laun.    So-ho  !  so-ho ! 

Pro.   What  seest  thou  ? 

Laun.    Him  we  go  to  find  !  there's  not  a  hair 2  on's 
head,  but  'tis  a  Valentine. 

Pro.    Valentine  ? 

Vol.   No. 

Pro.    Who  then  ?  his  spirit  ? 

Vol.    Neither. 

Pro.    What  then? 

Vol.    Nothing. 

Laun.    Can  nothing  speak?  master,  shall  I  strike? 

Pro.    Whom  would'st  thou  strike  ? 

Laun.    Nothing. 

Pro.    Villain,  forbear. 

Laun.    Why,  sir,  I'll  strike  nothing :  I  pray  you — 

Pro.    Sirrah,  I   say,   forbear :    Friend  Valentine,   a 
word. 

Val.    My  ears  are  stopped,   and  cannot  hear  good 

news, 
So  much  of  bad  already  hath  possessed  them. 

1  i.  c.  by  flying,  or  in  flying;  a  Gallicism. 

2  Launce  is  still  quibbling:  he  is  running  down  the  hare  he  started  when 
he  first  entered. 


SC.  I.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  121 

Pro.    Then  in  dumb  silence  will  I  bury  mine, 
For  they  are  harsh,  untunable,  and  bad. 

Val    Is  Silvia  dead  ? 

Pro.   No,  Valentine. 

Val.   No  Valentine,  indeed,  for  sacred  Silvia ! — 
Hath  she  forsworn  me  ? 

Pro.    No,  Valentine. 

Val.    No  Valentine,  if  Silvia  have  forsworn  me  ! — 
What  is  your  news  ? 

Laun.    Sir,   there's   a    proclamation   that   you    are 
vanished. 

Pro.    That  thou  art  banished,  O,  that's  the  news — 
From  hence,  from  Silvia,  and  from  me,  thy  friend. 

Val.    O,  I  have  fed  upon  this  wo  already, 
And  now  excess  of  it  will  make  me  surfeit. 
Doth  Silvia  know  that  I  am  banished  ? 

Pro.    Ay,  ay ;  and  she  hath  offered  to  the  doom, 
(Which,  unreversed,  stands  in  effectual  force,) 
A  sea  of  melting  pearl,  which  some  call  tears : 
Those  at  her  father's  churlish  feet  she  tendered ; 
With  them,  upon  her  knees,  her  humble  self; 
Wringing  her  hands,  whose  whiteness  so  became  them, 
As  if  but  now  they  waxed  pale  for  wo : 
But  neither  bended  knees,  pure  hands  held  up, 
Sad  sighs,  deep  groans,  nor  silver-shedding  tears, 
Could  penetrate  her  uncompassionate  sire ; 
But  Valentine,  if  he  be  ta'en,  must  die. 
Besides,  her  intercession  chafed  him  so, 
When  she  for  thy  repeal  was  suppliant, 
That  to  close  prison  he  commanded  her, 
With  many  bitter  threats  of  'biding  there. 

Val.   No   more ;    unless  the   next  word  that  thou 

speak'st, 

Have  some  malignant  power  upon  my  life : 
If  so,  I  pray  thee,  breathe  it  in  mine  ear, 
As  ending  anthem  of  my  endless  dolor. 

Pro.    Cease  to  lament  for  that  thou  can'st  not  help, 
And  study  help  for  that  which  thou  lament'st. 
Time  is  the  nurse  and  breeder  of  all  good. 
Here  if  thou  stay,  thou  canst  not  see  thy  love ; 
VOL.  i.  16 


122  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  III. 

Besides,  thy  staying  will  abridge  thy  life. 
Hope  is  a  lover's  staff;  walk  hence  with  that, 
And  manage  it  against  despairing  thoughts. 
Thy  letters  may  be  here,  though  thou  art  hence ; 
Which,  being  writ  to  me,  shall  be  delivered 
Even  in  the  milk-white  bosom  of  thy  love.1 
The  time  now  serves  not  to  expostulate  : 
Come,  I'll  convey  thee  through  the  city  gate ; 
And,  ere  I  part  with  thee,  confer  at  large 
Of  all  that  may  concern  thy  love-affairs  : 
As  thou  lov'st  Silvia,  though  not  for  thyself, 
Regard  thy  danger,  and  along  with  me. 

Vol.    I  pray  thee,  Launce,  an  if  thou  seest  my  boy, 
Bid  him  make  haste,  and  meet  me  at  the  north  gate. 

Pro.    Go,  sirrah,  find  him  out.     Come,  Valentine. 

Vol.    O  my  dear  Silvia !  hapless  Valentine  ! 

[Exeunt  VALENTINE  and  PROTEUS. 

Laun.  I  am  but  a  fool,  look  you ;  and  yet  I  have 
the  wit  to  think,  my  master  is  a  kind  of  a  knave  :  but 
that's  all  one,  if  he  be  but  one  knave.  He  lives  not 
now,  that  knows  me  to  be  in  love :  yet  I  am  in  love ; 
but  a  team  of  horse  shall  not  pluck  that  from  me ;  nor 
who  'tis  I  love,  and  yet  'tis  a  woman :  but  what 
woman,  I  will  not  tell  myself:  and  yet  'tis  a  milk 
maid  :  yet  'tis  not  a  maid,  for  she  hath  had  gossips  : 2 
yet  'tis  a  maid,  for  she  is  her  master's  maid,  and  serves 
for  wages.  She  hath  more  qualities  than  a  water- 
spaniel, — which  is  much  in  a  bare 3  Christian.  Here  is 
the  cate-log  [pulling  out  a  paper']  of  her  condition. 
Imprimis,  She  can  fetch  and  carry.  Why,  a  horse  can 
do  no  more  ;  nay,  a  horse  cannot  fetch,  but  only  carry ; 
therefore  is  she  better  than  a  jade.  Item,  She  can 
milk ;  look  you,  a  sweet  virtue  in  a  maid  with  clean 
hands. 

1  Women   anciently  had   a  pocket  in  the  forepart  of  their  stays,  in 
which  they  carried  not  only  love-letters  and  love-tokens,  but  even  their 
money. 

2  Gossips  not  only  signify  those  who  answer  for  a  child  in  baptism,  but 
the  tattling  Avomen  who  attend  lyings-in. 

3  Bare  has  two  senses,  mere  and  naked. 


SC.  I.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  123 

Enter  SPEED. 

Speed.  How  now,  signior  Launce  ?  what  news  with 
your  mastership  ? 

Laun.   With  my  master's  ship  ?  why,  it  is  at  sea. 

Speed.  Well,  your  old  vice  still ;  mistake  the  word  : 
What  news  then  in  your  paper  ? 

Laun.    The  blackest  news  that  ever  thou  heard'st. 

Speed.   Why,  man,  how  black  ? 

Laun.    Why,  as  black  as  ink. 

Speed.    Let  me  read  them. 

Laun.    Fie  on  thee,  jolt-head  ;  thou  canst  not  read. 

Speed.    Thou  liest,  I  can. 

Laun.    I  will  try  thee :  Tell  me  this ;  Who  begot  thee  ? 

Speed.    Marry,  the  son  of  my  grandfather. 

Laun.  O  illiterate  loiterer !  it  was  the  son  of  thy 
grandmother :  this  proves  that  thou  canst  not  read. 

Speed.    Come,  fool,  come  :  try  me  in  thy  paper. 

Laun.    There  :  and  saint  Nicholas l  be  thy  speed  ! 

Speed.    Imprimis,  She  can  milk. 

Laun.    Ay,  that  she  can. 

Speed.    Item,  She  brews  good  ale. 

Laun.  And  therefore  comes  the  proverb, — Blessing 
of  your  heart,  you  brew  good  ale. 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  sew. 

Laun.    That's  as  much  as  to  say,  can  she  so  ? 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  knit. 

Laun.  What  need  a  man  care  for  a  stock  with  a 
wench,  when  she  can  knit  him  a  stock.2 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  wash  and  scour. 

Laun.  A  special  virtue ;  for  then  she  need  not  be 
washed  and  scoured. 

Speed.    Item,  She  can  spin. 

Laun.  Then  may  I  set  the  world  on  wheels,  when 
she  can  spin  for  her  living. 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  many  nameless  virtues. 

1  St.  Nicholas  presided  over  scholars,  who  were  therefore  called  St, 
Nicholas's  clerks :  highwaymen  are  called  Nicholas's  clerks  in  Henry  IV 
Parti.1 

2  Stocking. 


124  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  III. 

Lawn.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  bastaid  virtues ; 
that,  indeed,  know  not  their  fathers,  and  therefore 
have  no  names. 

Speed.   Here  follow  her  vices. 

Laun.    Close  at  the  heels  of  her  virtues. 

Speed.  Item,  She  is  not  to  be  kissed  fasting,  in  re 
spect  of  her  breath. 

Laun.  Well,  that  fault  may  be  mended  with  a 
breakfast :  Read  on. 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  a  sweet  mouth. 

Laun.    That  makes  amends  for  her  sour  breath. 

Speed.    Item,  She  doth  talk  in  her  sleep. 

Laun.  It's  no  matter  for  that,  so  she  sleep  not  in 
her  talk. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  slow  in  words. 

Laun.  O  villain,  that  set  this  down  among  her 
vices  !  To  be  slow7  in  words,  is  a  woman's  only  virtue  : 
I  pray  thee,  out  with't ;  and  place  it  for  her  chief  virtue. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  proud. 

Laun.  Out  with  that  too  ;  it  was  Eve's  legacy,  and 
cannot  be  ta'en  from  her. 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  no  teeth. 

Laun.    I  care  not  for  that  neither,  because  I  love  crusts. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  curst. 

Laun.    Well,  the  best  is,  she  hath  no  teeth  to  bite. 

Speed.    Item,  She  will  often  praise  her  liquor. 

Laun.  If  her  liquor  be  good,  she  shall:  if  she  wdll 
not,  I  wrill ;  for  good  things  should  be  praised. 

Speed.    Item,  She  is  too  liberal.1 

Laun.  Of  her  tongue  she  cannot;  for  that's  writ 
down  she  is  slow  of:  of  her  purse  she  shall  not;  for 
that  I'll  keep  shut :  now  of  another  thing  she  may ; 
and  that  cannot  I  help.  Well,  proceed. 

Speed.  Item,  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit,  and  more 
faults  than  hairs,  and  more  wealth  than  faults. 

Laun.  Stop  there;  I'll  have  her:  she  was  mine, 
and  not  mine,  twice  or  thrice  in  that  last  article  :  Re 
hearse  that  once  more. 

1  Licentious,  free. 


SO.  II.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  125 

Speed.    Item,  She  hath  more  hair  than  wit — 

Laun.  More  hair  than  wit, — it  may  be ;  I'll  prove 
it :  The  cover  of  the  salt  hides  the  salt,1  and  therefore 
it  is  more  than  the  salt ;  the  hair  that  covers  the  wit, 
is  more  than  the  wit ;  for  the  greater  hides  the  less. 
What's  next  ? 

Speed.   And  more  faults  than  hairs — 

Laun.    That's  monstrous  :  O,  that  that  were  out ! 

Speed.   And  more  wealth  than  faults. 

Laun.  Why,  that  word  makes  the  faults  gracious. 
Well,  I'll  have  her :  and  if  it  be  a  match,  as  nothing  is 
impossible, — 

Speed.    What  then  ? 

Laun.  Why,  then  will  I  tell  thee,  that  thy  master 
stays  for  thee  at  the  north  gate. 

Speed.   For  me  ? 

Laun.  For  thee  ?  ay  ;  who  art  thou  ?  he  hath  staid 
for  a  better  man  than  thee. 

Speed.    And  must  I  go  to  him  ? 

Laun.  Thou  must  run  to  him,  for  thou  hast  staid  so 
long,  that  going  will  scarce  serve  the  turn. 

Speed.  Why  did'st  not  tell  me  sooner  ?  'pox  of  your 
love-letters !  [Exit. 

Laun.  Now  will  he  be  swinged  for  reading  my 
letter :  An  unmannerly  slave,  that  will  thrust  himself 
into  secrets  !  I'll  after,  to  rejoice  in  the  boy's  correction. 


SCENE    II.     The   same.      A  Room  in  the  Duke's 

Palace. 

Enter  DUKE  and  THURIO  ;  PROTEUS  behind. 

Duke.    Sir  Thurio,  fear  not,  but  that  she  will  love 

you, 
Now  Valentine  is  banished  from  her  sight. 

Thu.    Since  his  exile  she  has  despised  me  most, 

l  The  ancient  English  saltcellar  was  a  large  piece  of  plate,  generally 
much  ornamented,  with  a  cover  to  keep  the  salt  clean. 


126  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF   VERONA.  [ACT  III. 

Forsworn  my  company,  and  railed  at  me. 
That  I  am  desperate  of  obtaining  her. 

Duke.    This  weak  impress  of  love  is  as  a  figure 
Trenched 1  in  ice ;  which  with  an  hour's  heat 
Dissolves  to  water,  and  doth  lose  his  form. 
A  little  time  will  melt  her  frozen  thoughts, 
And  worthless  Valentine  shall  be  forgot. — 
How  now,  Sir  Proteus  ?  Is  your  countryman, 
According  to  our  proclamation,  gone  ? 

Pro.    Gone,  my  good  lord. 

Duke.    My  daughter  takes  his  going  grievously. 

Pro.    A  little  time,  my  lord,  will  kill  that  grief. 

Duke.    So  I  believe  ;  but  Thurio  thinks  not  so. — 
Proteus,  the  good  conceit  I  hold  of  thee, 
(For  thou  hast  shown  some  sign  of  good  desert,) 
Makes  me  the  better  to  confer  with  thee. 

Pro.    Longer  than  I  prove  loyal  to  your  grace, 
Let  me  not  live  to  look  upon  your  grace. 

Duke.    Thou  know'st,  how  willingly  I  would  effect 
The  match  between  Sir  Thurio  and  my  daughter. 

Pro.    I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.    And  also,  I  think,  thou  art  not  ignorant 
How  she  opposes  her  against  my  will. 

Pro.    She  did,  my  lord,  when  Valentine  was  here. 

Duke.    Ay,  and  perversely  she  perse vers  so. 
What  might  w7e  do,  to  make  the  girl  forget 
The  love  of  Valentine,  and  love  Sir  Thurio  ? 

Pro.  The  best  way  is  to  slander  Valentine 
With  falsehood,  cowardice,  and  poor  descent ; 
Three  things  that  women  highly  hold  in  hate. 

Duke.    Ay,  but  she'll  think  that  it  is  spoke  in  hate. 

Pro.    Ay,  if  his  enemy  deliver  it : 
Therefore  it  must,  with  circumstance,2  be  spoken 
By  one  w7hom  she  esteemeth  as  his  friend. 

Duke.    Then  you  must  undertake  to  slander  him. 

Pro.    And  that,  my  lord,  I  shall  be  loath  to  do : 


1  i.  e.  cut,  carved ;  from  the  Fr.  trancher. 

2  i.  e.  with  the  addition  of  such  incidental  particulars  as  may  induce 
belief. 


SC.  II.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  127 

'Tis  an  ill  office  for  a  gentleman ; 
Especially  against  his  very1  friend. 

Duke.   Where  your  good  word  cannot  advantage 

him, 

Your  slander  never  can  endamage  him  ; 
Therefore  the  office  is  indifferent, 
Being  entreated  to  it  by  your  friend. 

Pro.    You  have  prevailed,  my  lord  :  if  I  can  do  it, 
By  aught  that  I  can  speak  in  his  dispraise, 
She  shall  not  long  continue  love  to  him. 
But  say,  this  weed  her  love  from  Valentine, 
It  follows  not  that  she  will  love  Sir  Thurio. 

Thu.    Therefore,  as  you  unwind  her  love  from  him, 
Lest  it  should  ravel,  and  be  good  to  none, 
You  must  provide  to  bottom  it  on  me : 2 
Which  must  be  done,  by  praising  me  as  much 
As  you  in  worth  dispraise  Sir  Valentine. 

Duke.    And,  Proteus,  we  dare  trust  you  in  this  kind ; 
Because  we  know,  on  Valentine's  report, 
You  are  already  love's  firm  votary, 
And  cannot  soon  revolt  and  change  your  mind. 
Upon  this  warrant  shall  you  have  access, 
Where  you  with  Silvia  may  confer  at  large  ; 
For  she  is  lumpish,  heavy,  melancholy, 
And,  for  your  friend's  sake,  will  be  glad  of  you  ; 
Where  you  may  temper  her,  by  your  persuasion, 
To  hate  young  Valentine,  and  love  my  friend. 

Pro.    As  much  as  I  can  do,  I  will  effect : — 
But  you,  Sir  Thurio,  are  not  sharp  enough ; 
You  must  lay  lime,  to  tangle  her  desires, 
By  wailful  sonnets,  whose  composed  rhymes 
Should  be  full  fraught  with  serviceable  vows. 

Duke.    Ay,  much  is  the  force  of  heaven-bred  poesy. 

Pro.    Say,  that  upon  the  altar  of  her  beauty 
You  sacrifice  your  tears,  your  sighs,  vour  heart : 
Write  till  your  ink  be  dry ;  and  with  your  tears 
Moist  it  again ;  and  frame  some  feeling  line, 

1  Vei-y,  that  is,  true, ;  from  the  Lat.  verus. 

2  A  bottom  is  the  housewife's  term  for  a  ball  of  thread  wound  upon  a 
central  body. 


123  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IV. 

That  may  discover  such  integrity ; 1 

For  Orpheus'  lute  was  strung  with  poets'  sinewTs ; 

Whose  golden  touch  could  soften  steel  and  stones, 

Make  tigers  tame,  and  huge  leviathans 

Forsake  unsounded  deeps  to  dance  on  sands. 

After  your  dire-lamenting  elegies, 

Visit  by  night  your  lady's  chamber  window 

With  some  sweet  consort :  to  their  instruments 

Tune  a  deploring  dump ; 2  the  night's  dead  silence 

Will  well  become  such  sweet  complaining  grievance. 

This,  or  else  nothing,  will  inherit  her.3 

Duke.    This  discipline  shows  thou  hast  been  in  love. 

Thu.    And  thy  advice  this  night  I'll  put  in  practice  : 
Therefore,  sweet  Proteus,  my  direction-giver, 
Let  us  into  the  city  presently 
To  sort  some  gentlemen  well  skilled  in  music : 
I  have  a  sonnet,  that  will  serve  the  turn, 
To  give  the  onset  to  thy  good  advice. 

Duke.    About  it,  gentlemen. 

Pro.    We'll  w7ait  upon  your  grace  till  after  supper : 
And  afterward  determine  our  proceedings. 

Duke.   Even  now  about  it ;  I  will  pardon  you. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.     A  Forest,  near  Mantua. 

Enter  certain  Outlaws. 

1  Out.    Fellows,  stand  fast ;  I  see  a  passenger. 

2  Out.    If  there    be    ten,    shrink    not,    but    down 

with  'em. 


1  Sincerity. 

2  The  ancient  term  for  a  mournful  elegy. 

3  To  inherit  is  sometimes  used  by  Shakspeare  for  to  obtain  possession  of 


SC.  I.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  129 

Enter  VALENTINE  and  SPEED. 

3  Out.    Stand,    sir,    and   throw   us   that  you  have 

about  you ; 
If  not,  we'll  make  you  sit,  and  rifle  you. 

Speed.    Sir,  we  are  undone  !  these  are  the  villains 
That  all  the  travellers  do  fear  so  much. 

Vol.   My  friends, — 

1  Out.    That's  not  so,  sir ;  we  are  your  enemies. 

2  Out.    Peace  ;  we'll  hear  him. 

3  Out.    Ay,   by  my  beard,  will  we ;    for  he   is  a 

proper  man. 
Vol.    Then   know,    that   I   have    little   wealth    to 

lose ; 

A  man  I  am,  crossed  with  adversity : 
My  riches  are  these  poor  habiliments, 
Of  which  if  you  should  here  dismrnish  me, 
You  take  the  sum  and  substance  that  I  have. 

2  Out.   Whither  travel  you  ? 
Vol.   To  Verona. 

1  Out.   Whence  came  you  ? 
Val.   From  Milan. 

3  Out.    Have  you  long  sojourned  there  ? 

Val.    Some  sixteen  months  ;  and  longer  might  have 

staid, 
If  crooked  fortune  had  not  thwarted  me. 

1  Out.   What,  were  you  banished  thence  ? 
Val.    I  was. 

2  Out.   For  what  offence  ? 

Val.   For   that  which    now   torments    me    to   re 
hearse  : 

1  killed  a  man,  whose  death  I  much  repent  ; 
But  yet  I  slew  him  manfully  in  fight, 
Without  false  vantage,  or  base  treachery. 

1  Out.   Why,  ne'er  repent  it,  if  it  were  done  so  ; 
But  were  you  banished  for  so  small  a  fault  ? 

Vol.    I  was,  and  held  me  glad  of  such  a  doom. 

1  Out.    Have  you  the  tongues  ? 

Val.    My  youthful  travel  therein  made  me  happy ; 
Or  else  I  often  had  been  miserable. 
VOL.  i.  17 


130  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IV 

3  Out.   By  the  bare  scalp  of  Robin  Hood's  fat  friar,1 
This  fellow  W7ere  a  king  for  our  wild  faction. 

1  Out.   We'll  have  him ;  sirs,  a  word. 
Speed.    Master,  be  one  of  them  ; 

It  is  an  honorable  kind  of  thievery. 
Val.    Peace,  villain ! 

2  Out.    Tell  us  this  :  have  you  any  thing  to  take  to  ? 
Val.    Nothing  but  my  fortune. 

3  Out.    Know,  then,  that  some  of  us  are  gentlemen, 
Such  as  the  fury  of  ungoverned  youth 

Thrust  from  the  company  of  awful 2  men  : 
Myself  was  from  Verona  banished, 
For  practising  to  steal  away  a  lady, 
An  heir,  and  near  allied  unto  the  duke. 

2  Out.    And  I  from  Mantua,  for  a  gentleman, 
Whom,  in  my  mood,3  I  stabbed  unto  the  heart. 

1  Out.    And  I,  for  such  like  petty  crimes  as  these. 
But  to  the  purpose, — (for  we  cite  our  faults, 

That  they  may  hold  excused  our  lawless  lives,) 
And,  partly,  seeing  you  are  beautified 
With  goodly  shape  ;  and  bv  your  own  report 
A  linguist,  and  a  man  of  such  perfection, 
As  we  do  in  our  quality 4  much  want ; — 

2  Out.    Indeed,  because  you  are  a  banished  man, 
Therefore,  above  the  rest,  we  parley  to  you : 

Are  you  content  to  be  our  general  ? 

To  make  a  virtue  of  necessity, 

And  live,  as  we  do,  in  this  wilderness  ? 

3  Out.    What   say'st   thou?    wilt   thou   be   of  our 

consort  ? 

Say  ay,  and  be  the  captain  of  us  all ; 
We'll  do  thee  homage,  and  be  ruled  by  thee, 
Love  thee  as  our  commander  and  our  king. 

1  Out.    But  if  thou  scorn  our  courtesy,  thou  diest. 

2  Out.    Thou  shalt  not  live  to  brag  what  we  have 

offered. 

1  Friar  Tuck,  one  of  the  associates  of  Robin  Hood. 

2  Jlwful  men,  men  full  of  awe  and  respect  for  the  laws  of  society  and 
the  duties  of  life. 

3  Anger  or  resentment. 

4  i.  e.  Condition,  occupation. 


SC.  II.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  131 

Vol.    1  take  jour  offer,  and  will  live  with  you ; 
Provided  that  you  do  no  outrages 
On  silly  women,  or  poor  passengers. 

3  Out.    No,  we  detest  such  vile,  base  practices. 
Come,  go  with  us ;  we'll  bring  thee  to  our  crews, 
And  show  thee  all  the  treasure  we  have  got ; 
Which,  with  ourselves,  all  rest  at  thy  dispose. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Milan.     Court  of  the  Palace. 

Enter  PROTEUS. 

Pro.    Already  have  I  been  false  to  Valentine, 
And  now  I  must  be  as  unjust  to  Thurio. 
Under  the  color  of  commending  him, 
I  have  access  my  own  love  to  prefer ; 
But  Silvia  is  too  fair,  too  true,  too  holy, 
To  be  corrupted  with  my  worthless  gifts. 
When  I  protest  true  loyalty  to  her, 
She  twits  me  with  my  falsehood  to  my  friend ; 
When  to  her  beauty  I  commend  my  vows, 
She  bids  me  think,  how  I  have  been  forsworn 
In  breaking  faith  with  Julia  whom  I  loved : 
And,  notwithstanding  all  her  sudden  quips, 
The  least  whereof  would  quell  a  lover's  hope, 
Yet,  spaniel-like,  the  more  she  spurns  my  love, 
The  more  it  grows  and  fawneth  on  her  still. — 
But  here  comes  Thurio  ;  now  must  we  to  her  window, 
And  give  some  evening  music  to  her  ear. 

Enter  THURIO  and  Musicians. 

Tim.    How  now,   Sir  Proteus  ?  are  you  crept  be 
fore  us  ? 

Pro.    Ay,  gentle  Thurio ;  for  you  know  that  love 
Will  creep  in  service  where  it  cannot  go. 

Thu.    Ay,  but,  I  hope,  sir,  that  you  love  not  here. 
Pro.    Sir,  but  I  do ;  or  else  I  would  be  hence. 
Thu.   Who?  Silvia? 
Pro.    Ay,  Silvia, — for  your  sake. 


132  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IV. 

Thu.  I  thank  you  for  your  own.  Now,  gentlemen, 
Let's  tune,  and  to  it  lustily  awhile. 

Enter  Host,  at  a  distance ;  and  JULIA  in  boifs  clothes. 

Host.  Now,  my  young  guest !  methinks  you're 
allycholly :  I  pray  you,  why  is  it  ? 

JuL    Marry,  mine  host,  because  I  cannot  be  merry. 

Host.  Come,  we'll  have  you  merry :  I'll  bring  you 
where  you  shall  hear  music,  and  see  the  gentleman  that 
you  asked  for. 

JuL    But  shall  I  hear  him  speak  ? 

Host.    Ay,  that  you  shall. 

JuL    That  will  be  music.  [Music  plays. 

Host.    Hark!  hark! 

JuL    Is  he  among  these  ? 

Host.    Ay  :  but  peace  ;  let's  hear  'em. 

SONG. 

Who  is  Sylvia  ?     WJiat  is  she  ? 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she  ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her, 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind,  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness  : 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness ; 
And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Silvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Silvia  is  excelling ; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing, 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling . 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Host.    How  now?  are  you  sadder  than  you  were 

before  ? 

How  do  you,  man  ?  the  music  likes  you  not. 
JuL    You  mistake  ;  the  musician  likes  me  not. 


SO.  II.]  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  133 

Host.    Why,  my  pretty  youth  ? 

Jul.    He  plays  false,  father. 

Host.    How  ?  out  of  tune  on  the  strings  ? 

Jul.  Not  so ;  but  yet  so  false  that  he  grieves  my 
very  heart-strings. 

Host.    You  have  a  quick  ear. 

Jul.  Ay,  I  would  I  were  deaf!  it  makes  me  have  a 
slow  heart. 

Host.    I  perceive,  you  delight  not  in  music. 

Jul.   Not  a  whit,  when  it  jars  so. 

Host.    Hark,  what  fine  change  is  in  the  music ! 

Jul.    Ay ;  that  change  is  the  spite. 

Host.  You  would  have  them  always  play  but  one 
thing  ? 

Jul.  I  would  always  have  one  play  but  one  thing. 
But,  host,  doth  this  Sir  Proteus,  that  we  talk  on,  often 
resort  unto  this  gentlewoman  ? 

Host.  I  tell  you  what  Launce,  his  man,  told  me,  he 
loved  her  out  of  all  nick.1 

Jul.    Where  is  Launce  ? 

Host.  Gone  to  seek  his  dog ;  which,  to-morrow,  by 
his  master's  command,  he  must  carry  for  a  present  to 
his  lady. 

Jul.    Peace  !  stand  aside  !  the  company  parts. 

Pro.    Sir  Thurio,  fear  not  you !  I  will  so  plead, 
That  you  shall  say,  my  cunning  drift  excels. 

Thu.    Where  nice*,  we  ? 

Pro.    At  Saint  Gregory's  well. 

Tliu.   Farewell.  [Exeunt  THU.  and  Musicians. 

SILVIA  appears  above,  at  her  window. 

Pro.    Madam,  good  even  to  your  ladyship. 

Sil.    I  thank  you  for  your  music,  gentlemen  : 
Who  is  that,  that  spake  ? 

Pro.  One,  lady,  if  you  knew  his  pure  heart's  truth, 
You'd  quickly  learn  to  know  him  by  his  voice. 

Sil.    Sir  Proteus,  as  I  take  it. 

Pro.    Sir  Proteus,  gentle  lady,  and  your  servant. 

1  i.  e.  Out  of  all  reckoning  or  count ;  reckonings  were  kept  upon  nicked 
or  notched  sticks  or  tallies. 


134  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IV 

Sil.    What  is  your  will  ? 

Pro.    That  I  may  compass  yours. 

Sil.    You  have  your  wish ;  my  will  is  even  this, — 
That  presently  you  hie  you  home  to  bed. 
Thou  subtle,  perjured,  false,  disloyal  man ! 
Think'st  thou,  I  am  so  shallow,  so  conceitless, 
To  be  seduced  by  thy  flattery, 
That  hast  deceived  so  many  with  thy  vows ; 
Return,  return,  and  make  thy  love  amends. 
For  me, — by  this  pale  queen  of  night  I  swear, 
I  am  so  far  from  granting  thy  request, 
That  I  despise  thee  for  thy  wrongful  suit ; 
And  by  and  by  intend  to  chide  myself, 
Even  for  this  time  1  spend  in  talking  to  thee. 

Pro.    I  grant,  sweet  love,  that  I  did  love  a  lady  ; 
But  she  is  dead. 

Jul.    'Twere  false,  if  I  should  speak  it ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  she  is  not  buried.  [Aside 

Sil.    Say  that  she  be  ;  yet  Valentine,  thy  friend, 
Survives  ;  to  whom,  thyself  art  witness, 
I  am  betrothed :  And  art  thou  not  ashamed 
To  wTong  him  with  thy  importunacy  ? 

Pro.    I  likewise  hear,  that  Valentine  is  dead. 

Sil.    And  so  suppose  am  I ;  for  in  his  grave, 
Assure  thyself,  my  love  is  buried. 

Pro.    Sweet  lady,  let  me  rake  it  from  the  earth. 

Sil.    Go  to  thy  lady's  grave,  and  call  hers  thence ; 
Or,  at  the  least,  in  hers  sepulchre  thine. 

Jul.    He  heard  not  that.  [Aside. 

Pro.    Madam,  if  your  heart  be  so  obdurate, 
Vouchsafe  me  yet  your  picture  for  my  love, 
The  picture  that  is  hanging  in  your  chamber , 
To  that  I'll  speak,  to  that  I'll  sigh  and  weep : 
For,  since  the  substance  of  your  perfect  self 
Is  else  devoted,  I  am  but  a  shadow ; 
And  to  your  shadow  will  I  make  true  love. 

Jul.    If  'twere  a  substance,   you  would,  sure,  de 
ceive  it, 
And  make  it  but  a  shadow,  as  1  am.  [Aside. 

Sil.    I  am  very  loath  to  be  your  idol,  sir ; 


SC.  III.]  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  135 

But,  since  your  falsehood  shall  become  you  well 
To  worship  shadows,  and  adore  false  shapes, 
Send  to  me  in  the  morning  and  I'll  send  it : 
And  so,  good  rest. 

Pro.  As  wretches  have  o'ernight, 

That  wait  for  execution  in  the  morn. 

[Exeunt  PROTEUS  ;  and  SILVIA  from  above. 

Jul.    Host,  will  you  go  ? 

Host.    By  my  halidom,  I  was  fast  asleep. 

Jul.    Pray  you,  where  lies  Sir  Proteus  ? 

Host.   Marry,  at  my  house :  Trust  me,  I  think  'tis 
almost  day. 

Jul.    Not  so ;  but  it  hath  been  the  longest  night 
That  e'er  I  watched,  and  the  most  heaviest. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  same. 

Enter  E GLAMOUR. 

Egl.    This  is  the  hour  that  madam  Silvia 
Entreated  me  to  call  and  know  her  mind : 
There's  some  great  matter  she'd  employ  me  in. — 
Madam,  madam! 

SILVIA  appears  above,  at  her  window. 

Sil.    Who  calls? 

Egl.    Your  servant,  and  your  friend  ; 
One  that  attends  your  ladyship's  command. 

Sil.    Sir  Eglarnour,  a  thousand  times  good-morrow. 

Egl.    As  many,  worthy  lady,  to  yourself. 
According  to  your  ladyship's  impose, 
I  am  thus  early  come,  to  know  what  service 
It  is  your  pleasure  to  command  me  in. 

Sil.    O  E  glamour,  thou  art  a  gentleman, 
(Think  not  I  flatter,  for  I  swear  I  do  not,) 
Valiant,  wise,  remorseful,1  well,  accomplished 
Thou  art  not  ignorant,  what  dear  good-will 

1  i.  e.  pitiful. 


136  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IV 

I  bear  unto  the  banished  Valentine ; 

Nor  how  my  father  would  enforce  me  marry 

Vain  Thurio,  whom  my  very  soul  abhorred. 

Thyself  hast  loved  ;  and  I  have  heard  thee  say, 

No  grief  did  ever  come  so  near  thy  heart, 

As  when  thy  lady  and  thy  true  love  died, 

Upon  whose  grave  thou  vow'dst  pure  chastity. 

Sir  Egiamour,  I  would  to  Valentine, 

To  Mantua,  where,  I  hear,  he  makes  abode  ; 

And,  for  the  ways  are  dangerous  to  pass, 

I  do  desire  thy  worthy  company, 

Upon  whose  faith  and  honor  I  repose. 

Urge  not  my  father's  anger,  Egiamour, 

But  think  upon  my  grief,  a  lady's  grief; 

And  on  the  justice  of  my  flying  hence, 

To  keep  me  from  a  most  unholy  match, 

Which  heaven  and  fortune  still  reward  with  plagues. 

I  do  desire  thee,  even  from  a  heart 

As  full  of  sorrows  as  the  sea  of  sands, 

To  bear  me  company,  and  go  with  me : 

If  not,  to  hide  what  I  have  said  to  thee, 

That  I  may  venture  to  depart  alone. 

Egl.    Madam,  1  pity  much  your  grievances ; 
Which  since  I  know  they  virtuously  are  placed, 
I  give  consent  to  go  along  with  you ; 
Recking  as  little  what  betideth  me, 
As  much  I  wish  all  good  befortune  you. 
When  will  you  go  ? 

Sil.    This  evening  coming. 

Egl.    Where  shall  I  meet  you  ? 

Sil.    At  friar  Patrick's  cell, 
Where  I  intend  holy  confession. 

Egl.    I  will  not  fail  your  ladyship : 
Good-morrow,  gentle  lady. 

Sil.    Good-morrow,  kind  Sir  Egiamour.       [Exeunt. 


SC.  IV.]  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  137 


SCENE  IV.     The  same. 

Enter  LAUNCE,  with  his  Dog. 

When  a  man's  servant  shall  play  the  cur  with  him, 
look  you,  it  goes  hard :  one  that  I  brought  up  of  a 
puppy ;  one  that  I  saved  from  drowning,  when  three 
or  four  of  his  blind  brothers  and  sisters  went  to  it !  I 
have  taught  him — even  as  one  would  say  precisely, 
Thus  I  would  teach  a  dog.  I  was  sent  to  deliver  him, 
as  a  present  to  mistress  Silvia,  from  my  master ;  and 
I  came  no  sooner  into  the  dining-chamber,  but  he  steps 
me  to  her  trencher,  and  steals  her  capon's  leg.  O,  'tis 
a  foul  thing,  when  a  cur  cannot  keep 1  himself  in  all 
companies !  I  would  have,  as  one  should  say,  one 
that  takes  upon  him  to  be  a  dog  indeed,  to  be,  as  it 
were,  a  dog  at  all  things.  If  I  had  not  had  more  wit 
than  he,  to  take  a  fault  upon  me  that  he  did,  I  think 
verily  he  had  been  hanged  for't :  sure  as  I  live,  he  had 
suffered  for't :  you  shall  judge.  He  thrusts  me  him 
self  into  the  company  of  three  or  four  gentleman-like 
dogs,  under  the  duke's  table :  he  had  not  been  there 
(bless  the  mark)  a  pissing  while ;  but  all  the  chamber 
smelt  him.  Out  with  the  dog,  says  one  ;  What  cur  is 
that  ?  says  another ;  Whip  him  out,  says  the  third ; 
Hang  him  up,  says  the  duke.  I,  having  been  ac 
quainted  with  the  smell  before,  knew  it  was  Crab ; 
and  goes  me  to  the  fellow  that  whips  the  dogs  :  Friend, 
quoth  1,  you  mean  to  whip  the  dog?  Ay,  marry,  do  I, 
quoth  he.  You  do  him  the  more  wrong,  quoth  I ;  'twas 
I  did  the  thing  you  wot  of.  He  makes  me  no  more 
ado,  but  whips  me  out  of  the  chamber.  How  many 
masters  would  do  this  for  their  servant?  Nay,  I'll  be 
sworn,  I  have  sat  in  the  stocks  for  puddings  he  hath 
stolen,  otherwise  he  had  been  executed :  I  have  stood 
on  the  pillory  for  geese  he  hath  killed,  otherwise  he  had 
suffered  for't :  thou  think'st  not  of  this  now  ! — Nay,  I 


1  i.  e.  restrain. 
VOL.  I.  18 


133  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IV. 

remember  the  trick  you  served  me,  when  I  took  my  leave 
of  madam  Silvia :  did  not  I  bid  thee  still  mark  me, 
and  do  as  I  do  ?  When  didst  thou  see  me  heave  up 
my  leg,  and  make  water  against  a  gentlewoman's  far 
thingale  ?  didst  thou  ever  see  me  do  such  a  trick  ? 

Enter  PROTEUS  and  JULIA. 

Pro.    Sebastian  is  thy  name  ?     I  like  thee  well, 
And  will  employ  thee  in  some  service  presently. 

JuL    In  what  you  please  ; — I  will  do  what  I  can. 

Pro.    I  hope   thou  wilt. — How  now,  you  whoreson 
peasant!  [To  LAUNCE. 

Where  have  you  been  these  two  days  loitering  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  I  carried  mistress  Silvia  the  dog 
you  bade  me. 

Pro.    And  what  says  she  to  my  little  jewel  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  she  says,  your  dog  was  a  cur ;  and 
tells  you,  currish  thanks  is  good  enough  for  such  a 
present. 

Pro.   But  she  received  my  dog  ? 

Laun.  No,  indeed,  did  she  not :  here  have  I  brought 
him  back  again. 

Pro.    What,  didst  thou  offer  her  this  from  me  ? 

Laun.  Ay,  sir ;  the  other  squirrel  was  stolen  from 
me  by  the  hangman's  boys  in  the  market-place  :  and 
then  I  offered  her  mine  own ;  who  is  a  dog  as  big  as 
ten  of  yours,  and  therefore  the  gift  the  greater. 

Pro.    Go,  get  thee  hence,  and  find  my  dog  again, 
Or  ne'er  return  again  into  my  sight. 
Away,  I  say :  Stay'st  thou  to  vex  me  here  ? 
A  slave,  that  still  an  end 1  turns  me  to  shame. 

[Exit  LAUNCE. 

Sebastian,  I  have  entertained  thee, 
Partly,  that  I  have  need  of  such  a  youth, 
That  can  with  some  discretion  do  my  business, 
For  'tis  no  trusting  to  yon  foolish  lout ; 
But,  chiefly  for  thy  face  and  thy  behavior : 

1  Still  an  end,  and  most  an  end,  are  vulgar  expressions,  and  mean  per* 
pttually,  generally. 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  139 

Which  (if  my  augury  deceive  me  not) 
Witness  good  bringing  up,  fortune,  and  truth : 
Therefore  know  thou,  for  this  I  entertain  thee. 
Go  presently  and  take  this  ring  with  thee, 
Deliver  it  to  madam  Silvia : 
She  loved  me  well,  delivered  it  to  me. 

Jul.    It  seems  you  loved  her  not,  to  leave  her  token  : 
She's  dead,  belike. 

Pro.   Not  so ;  I  think  she  lives. 

Jul.    Alas ! 

Pro.    Why  dost  thou  cry,  alas  ? 

Jul.    I  cannot  choose  but  pity  her. 

Pro.   Wherefore  should'st  thou  pity  her  ? 

Jul.    Because,  me  thinks  that  she  loved  you  as  well 
As  you  do  love  your  lady  Silvia : 
She  dreams  on  him  that  has  forgot  her  love  ; 
You  dote  on  her  that  cares  not  for  your  love. 
'Tis  pity,  love  should  be  so  contrary : 
And  thinking  on  it  makes  me  cry,  alas ! 

Pro.    Well,  give  her  that  ring,  and  therewithal 
This  letter  ; — that's  her  chamber. — Tell  my  lady, 
I  claim  the  promise  for  her  heavenly  picture. 
Your  message  done,  hie  home  unto  my  chamber, 
Where  thou  shalt  find  me  sad  and  solitary. 

[Exit  PROTEUS 

Jul.    How  many  women  would  do  such  a  message  ? 
Alas,  poor  Proteus !  thou  hast  entertained 
A  fox,  to  be  the  shepherd  of  thy  lambs : 
Alas,  poor  fool !  why  do  I  pity  him, 
That  with  his  very  heart  despiseth  me  ? 
Because  he  loves  her,  he  despiseth  me ; 
Because  I  love  him,  I  must  pity  him. 
This  ring  I  gave  him,  when  he  parted  from  me, 
To  bind  him  to  remember  my  good-will : 
And  now  am  I  (unhappy  messenger !) 
To  plead  for  that,  which  I  would  not  obtain ; 
To  carry  that  which  I  would  have  refused ; 
To  praise  his  faith  which  I  would  have  dispraised 
I  am  my  master's  true,  confirmed  love ; 
But  cannot  be  true  servant  to  my  master, 


140  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  IV 

Unless  I  prove  false  traitor  to  myself. 

Yet  I  will  woo  for  him  :  but  yet  so  coldly, 

As,  heaven  it  knows,  I  would  not  have  him  speed. 

Enter  SILVIA,  attended. 

Gentlewoman,  good  day !  I  pray  you  be  my  mean 
To  bring  me  where  to  speak  with  madam  Silvia. 

SiL    What  would  you  with  her,  if  that  I  be  she  ? 

Jid.    If  you  be  she,  I  do  entreat  your  patience 
To  hear  me  speak  the  message  I  am  sent  on. 

SiL    From  whom  ? 

JuL    From  my  master,  Sir  Proteus,  madam. 

SiL    O  ! — he  sends  you  for  a  picture  ? 

JuL    Ay,  madam. 

SiL    Ursula,  bring  my  picture  there. 

[Picture  brought 

Go,  give  your  master  this :  tell  him  from  me, 
One  Julia,  that  his  changing  thoughts  forget, 
Would  better  fit  his  chamber  than  this  shadow. 

JuL    Madam,  please  you  peruse  this  letter. — 
Pardon  me,  madam  ;  I  have  unadvised 
Delivered  you  a  paper  that  I  should  not ; 
This  is  the  letter  to  your  ladyship. 

SiL    I  pray  thee  let  me  look  on  that  again. 

JuL    It  may  not  be  ;  good  madam,  pardon  me. 

SiL    There,  hold. 

I  Avill  not  look  upon  your  master's  lines : 
I  know  they  are  stuffed  with  protestations. 
And  full  of  new-found  oaths ;  which  he  will  break 
As  easily  as  I  do  tear  his  paper. 

JuL    Madam,  he  sends  your  ladyship  this  ring. 

SiL    The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  it  me , 
For,  I  have  heard  him  say  a  thousand  times, 
His  Julia  gave  it  him  at  his  departure : 
Though  his  false  finger  hath  profaned  the  ring, 
Mine  shall  not  do  his  Julia  so  much  wrong. 

JuL    She  thanks  you. 

SiL    What  say'st  thou  ? 

JuL    I  thank  you,  madam,  that  you  tender  her : 
Poor  gentlewoman !  my  master  wrongs  her  much. 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  141 

SiL    Dost  thou  know  her  ? 

JuL    Almost  as  well  as  I  do  know  myself: 
To  think  upon  her  woes,  I  do  protest, 
That  I  have  wept  a  hundred  several  times. 

SiL    Belike,  she  thinks  that  Proteus  hath  forsook 
her. 

JuL    I  think  she  doth,  and  that's  her  cause  of  sorrow. 

SiL    Is  she  not  passing  fair  ? 

JuL    She  hath  been  fairer,  madam,  than  she  is : 
When  she  did  think  my  master  loved  her  well, 
She,  in  my  judgment,  was  as  fair  as  you ; 
But  since  she  did  neglect  her  looking-glass, 
Arid  threw  her  sun-expelling  mask  away, 
The  air  hath  starved  the  roses  in  her  cheeks, 
And  pinched  the  lily-tincture  of  her  face, 
That  now  she  is  become  as  black  as  I. 

SiL    How  tall  was  she  ? 

JuL    About  my  stature  :  for,  at  Pentecost, 
When  all  our  pageants  of  delight  were  played, 
Our  youth  got  me  to  play  the  woman's  part, 
And  I  was  trimmed  in  madam  Julia's  gown, 
Which  served  me  as  fit,  by  all  men's  judgment, 
As  if  the  garment  had  been  made  for  me  ; 
Therefore,  I  know  she  is  about  my  height. 
And,  at  that  time,  I  made  her  weep  a  good,1 
For  I  did  play  a  lamentable  part : 
Madam,  'twas  Ariadne,  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjury,  and  unjust  flight ; 
Which  I  so  lively  acted  with  my  tears, 
That  my  poor  mistress,  moved  therewithal, 
Wept  bitterly ;  and  would  I  might  be  dead, 
If  I  in  thought  felt  not  her  very  sorrow ! 

SiL    She  is  beholden  to  thee,  gentle  youth  ! — 
Alas,  poor  lady !  desolate  and  left ! — 
I  weep  myself,  to  think  upon  thy  words. 
Here,  youth,  there  is  my  purse ;  I  give  thee  this 
For  thy  sweet  mistress'  sake,  because  thou  lov'st  her. 
Farewell.  [Exit  SILVIA. 

1  i.  e.  in  good  earnest,  tout  de  bon. 


142  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF   VERONA.  [ACT  IV. 

Jul.    And  she  shall  thank  you  for't,  if  e'er  you  know 

her.  — 

A  virtuous  gentlewoman,  mild,  and  beautiful. 
I  hope  my  master's  suit  will  be  but  cold, 
Since  she  respects  my  mistress'  love  so  much. 
Alas,  how  love  can  trifle  with  itself! 
Here  is  her  picture  :  Let  me  see  ;  I  think, 
If  I  had  such  a  tire,  this  face  of  mine 
Were  full  as  lovely  as  is  this  of  hers  : 
And  yet  the  painter  flattered  her  a  little, 
Unless  I  flatter  with  myself  too  much. 
Her  hair  is  auburn,  mine  is  perfect  yellow  : 
If  that  be  all  the  difference  in  his  love, 
I'll  get  me  such  a  colored  periwig. 
Her  eyes  are  gray  as  glass  ;  and  so  are  mine  : 
Ay,  but  her  forehead's  low,  and  mine's  as  high. 
What  should  it  be,  that  he  respects  in  her, 
But  I  can  make  respective  1  in  myself, 
If  this  fond  love  were  not  a  blinded  god  ? 
Come,  shadow,  come,  and  take  this  shadow  up, 
For  'tis  thy  rival.     O  thou  senseless  form, 
Thou  shalt  be  worshipped,  kissed,  loved,  and  adored  ; 
And,  were  there  sense  in  his  idolatry, 
My  substance  should  be  statue  2  in  thy  stead. 
I'll  use  thee  kindly  for  thy  mistress'  sake, 
That  used  me  so  ;  or  else  by  Jove  I  vow, 
I  should  have  scratched  out  your  unseeing  eyes, 
To  make  my  master  out  of  love  with  thee.  [Exit. 


1  Regardful    V.  Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  V.  Sc.  I. 

2  The  word  statue  was  formerly  used  to  express  a  portrait,  and  some 
times  a  statue  was  called  a  picture. 


SC.  I.]  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  143 


ACT  V. 

j 

SCENE  1.     The  same.    An  Abbey. 

Enter  EGLAMOUR. 

EgL    The  sun  begins  to  gild  the  western  sky  ; 
And  now  it  is  about  the  very  hour 
That  Silvia,  at  friar  Patrick's  cell,  should  meet  me. 
She  will  not  fail ;  for  lovers  break  not  hours, 
Unless  it  be  to  come  before  their  time ; 
So  much  they  spur  their  expedition. 

Enter  SILVIA. 

See  where  she  comes ;  Lady,  a  happy  evening ! 

SiL   Amen,  amen  !  go  on,  good  E glamour ! 
Out  at  the  postern  by  the  abbey  wall ; 
I  fear  I  am  attended  by  some  spies. 

EgL    Fear  not :  the  forest  is  not  three  leagues  off: 
If  we  recover  that,  we  are  sure  enough.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   II.      The  same.      A  Room  in   the  Duke's 

Palace. 

Enter  THURIO,  PROTEUS,  and  JULIA. 

Thu.    Sir  Proteus,  what  says  Silvia  to  my  suit  ? 

Pro.    O,  sir,  I  find  her  milder  than  she  was ; 
And  yet  she  takes  exceptions  at  your  person. 

Thu.    What,  that  my  leg  is  too  long  ? 

Pro.   No  ;  that  it  is  too  little. 

Thu.    I'll  wear  a  boot,  to  make  it  somewhat  rounder. 

Pro.   But  love  will  not  be  spurred  to  what  it  loathes. 

Thu.   What  says  she  to  my  face  ? 

Pro.    She  says  it  is  a  fair  one. 

Thu.   Nay,  then  the  wanton  lies ;  my  face  is  black. 

Pro.   But  pearls  are  fair ;  and  the  old  saying  is, 
Black  men  are  pearls  in  beauteous  ladies'  eyes. 


144  TWO    GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  [ACT  V. 

Jul.    'Tis  true  ;  such  pearls  as  put  out  ladies'  eyes  ; 
For  I  had  rather  wink  than  look  on  them.  [Aside. 

Thu.    How  likes  she  my  discourse  ? 
Pro.    Ill,  when  you  talk  of  war. 
Thu.    But  wrell,  when  I  discourse  of  love  and  peace  ? 
Jul.    But  better  indeed,  when  you  hold  your  peace. 

[Aside. 

Tim.    What  says  she  to  my  valor  ? 
Pro.    O,  sir,  she  makes  no  doubt  of  that. 
Jul.    She  needs  not,  when  she  knows  it  cowardice. 

[Aside. 

Thu.    What  says  she  to  my  birth  ? 
Pro.    That  you  are  well  derived. 
Jul.    True,  from  a  gentleman  to  a  fool.  [Aside. 

Thu.    Considers  she  my  possessions  ? 
Pro.    O,  ay ;  and  pities  them. 
Thu.    Wherefore? 

Jul.    That  such  an  ass  should  owe 1  them.      [Aside. 
Pro.    That  they  are  out  by  lease.2 
Jul.    Here  comes  the  duke. 

Enter  DUKE. 

Duke.    How  now,  Sir  Proteus  ?  how  now,  Thurio  ? 
Which  of  you  saw  Sir  Eglamour  of  late  ? 

Thu.   Not  I. 

Pro.   Nor  I. 

Duke.    Saw  you  my  daughter  ? 

Pro.    Neither. 

Duke.    Why,  then  she's  fled  unto  that  peasant  Val 
entine  ; 

And  Eglamour  is  in  her  company. 
'Tis  true  ;  for  friar  Laurence  met  them  both, 
As  he  in  penance  wandered  through  the  forest ; 
Him  he  knew  well,  and  guessed  that  it  was  she : 
But,  being  masked,  he  was  not  sure  of  it : 

1  i.  e.  possess  them,  own  them. 

2  By  Thurio's  possessions  he  himself  understands  his  lands.     But  Pro 
teus  chooses  to  take  the  word  likewise  in  a  figurative  sense,  as  signifying 
his  mental  endowments,  and  when  he  says  they  are  out  In)  lease,  he  means, 
that  they  are  no  longer  enjoyed  by  their  master  (who  is  a  fool),  but  are 
leased  out  to  another. 


SC.  III.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  145 

Besides,  she  did  intend  confession 

At  Patrick's  cell  this  even :  and  there  she  was  not : 

These  likelihoods  confirm  her  flight  from  hence. 

Therefore,  I  pray  you,  stand  not  to  discourse, 

But  mount  you  presently ;  and  meet  with  me 

Upon  the  rising  of  the  mountain  foot 

That  leads  towards  Mantua,  whither  they  are  fled : 

Despatch,  sweet  gentlemen,  and  follow  me.         [Exit. 

Thu.    Why,  this  it  is  to  be  a  peevish  girl, 
That  flies  her  fortune  when  it  follows  her  : 
I'll  after;  more  to  be  revenged  on  Eglamour, 
Than  for  the  love  of  reckless  Silvia.  [Exit. 

Pro.    And  I  will  follow,  more  for  Silvia's  love, 
Than  hate  of  Eglamour  that  goes  with  her.          [Exit. 

Jul.    And  1  will  follow  more  to  cross  that  love, 
Than  hate  for  Silvia,  that  is  gone  for  love.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.     Frontiers  of  Mantua.     The  Forest. 

Enter  SILVIA  and  Outlaws. 

Out.    Come,  come ; 
Be  patient,  we  must  bring  you  to  our  captain. 

Sil.    A  thousand  more  mischances  than  this  one 
Have  learned  me  how  to  brook  this  patiently. 

2  Out.    Come,  bring  her  away. 

1  Out.    Where  is  the  gentleman  that  was  with  her  ? 

3  Out.    Being  nimble-footed,  he  hath  outrun  us, 
But  Moyses  and  Valerius  follow  him. 

Go  thou  with  her  to  the  west  end  of  the  \vood  ; 
There  is  our  captain  :  we'll  follow  him  that's  fled  : 
The  thicket  is  beset,  he  cannot  'scape. 

1  Out.    Come,  I  must  bring  you  to  our  captain's 

cave : 

Fear  not ;  he  bears  an  honorable  mind, 
And  will  not  use  a  woman  lawlessly. 

Sil.    O  Valentine,  this  I  endure  for  thee !    [Exeunt. 

VOL.    I.  19 


146  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  V. 


SCENE  IV.     Another  Part  of  the  Forest. 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

Vol.    How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man ! 
This  shadowy  desert,  unfrequented  woods, 
I  better  brook  than  flourishing,  peopled  towns : 
Here  can  I  sit  alone,  unseen  of  any, 
And,  to  the  nightingale's  complaining  notes, 
Tune  my  distresses,  and  record 1  my  woes. 
O  thou  that  dost  inhabit  in  my  breast, 
Leave  not  the  mansion  so  long  tenantless ; 
Lest,  growing  ruinous,  the  building  fall, 
And  leave  no  memory  of  what  it  was  ! 
Repair  me  with  thy  presence,  Silvia  ; 
Thou  gentle  nymph,  cherish  thy  forlorn  swain ! — 
What  hallooing,  and  what  stir,  is  this  to-day  ? 
These  are  my  mates,  that  make  their  wills  their  law, 
Have  some  unhappy  passenger  in  chase  : 
They  love  me  well ;  yet  I  have  much  to  do 
To  keep  them  from  uncivil  outrages. 
Withdraw  thee,  Valentine  ;  who's  this  comes  here  ? 

[Steps  aside 

Enter  PROTEUS,  SILVIA,  and  JULIA. 

Pro.   Madam,  this  service  1  have  done  for  you, 
(Though  you  respect  not  aught  your  servant  doth,) 
To  hazard  life,  and  rescue  you  from  him 
That  would  have  forced  your  honor  and  your  love. 
Vouchsafe  me,  for  my  meed,  but  one  fair  look ; 
A  smaller  boon  than  this  I  cannot  beg, 
And  less  than  this,  I'm  sure,  you  cannot  give. 

Vol.   Howr  like  a  dream  is  this  I  see  and  hear ! 
Love,  lend  me  patience  to  forbear  a  while.         [Aside. 

SiL    O  miserable,  unhappy  that  I  am ! 

Pro.    Unhappy  were  you,  madam,  ere  I  came  ; 
But,  by  my  coming,  I  have  made  you  happy. 

i  To  record  anciently  signified  to  sing. 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN    OF  VERONA.  147 

Sil.   By  thy  approach  thou  mak'st  me  most  unhappy. 

JuL    And  me,  when  he  approacheth  to  your  pres 
ence.  [Aside. 

Sil.    Had  I  been  seized  by  a  hungry  lion, 
I  would  have  been  a  breakfast  to  the  beast, 
Rather  than  have  false  Proteus  rescue  me. 
O,  heaven  be  judge,  how  I  love  Valentine, 
Whose  life's  as  tender  to  me  as  my  soul ; 
And  full  as  much  (for  more  there  cannot  be) 
I  do  detest  false,  perjured  Proteus : 
Therefore  begone,  solicit  me  no  more. 

Pro.    What  dangerous  action,  stood  it  next  to  death, 
Would  I  not  undergo  for  one  calm  look ! 
O,  'tis  the  curse  in  love,  and  still  approved,1 
When  women  cannot  love  where  they're  beloved. 

Sil.   When  Proteus  cannot  love  where  he's  beloved. 
Read  over  Julia's  heart,  thy  first,  best  love, 
For  whose  dear  sake  thou  didst  then  rend  thy  faith 
Into  a  thousand  oaths ;  and  all  those  oaths 
Descended  into  perjury,  to  love  me. 
Thou  hast  no  faith  left  now,  unless  thou  hadst  two, 
And  that's  far  worse  than  none  ;  better  have  none 
Than  plural  faith,  which  is  too  much  by  one : 
Thou  counterfeit  to  thy  true  friend ! 

Pro.  In  love, 

Who  respects  friend  ? 

Sil.  All  men  but  Proteus. 

Pro.   Nay,  if  the  gentle  spirit  of  moving  words 
Can  no  way  change  you  to  a  milder  form, 
I'll  woo  you  like  a  soldier,  at  arms'  end ; 
And  love  you  'gainst  the  nature  of  love,  force  you. 

Sil.    O  heaven! 

Pro.  I'll  force  thee  yield  to  my  desire. 

Veil.    Ruffian,  let  go  that  rude,  uncivil  touch ; 
Thou  friend  of  an  ill  fashion. 

Pro.  Valentine ! 

Vol.    Thou  common  friend,  that's  without  faith  or 
love, 

1  Approved  is  confirmed  by  proof. 


148  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  "VERONA.  [ACT  V 

(For  such  is  a  friend  now,)  treacherous  man ! 

Thou  hast  beguiled  my  hopes ;  nought  but  mine  eye 

Could  have  persuaded  me :  Now  I  dare  not  say 

I  have  one  friend  alive  ;  thou  would'st  disprove  rne. 

Who  should  be  trusted  now,  when  one's  right  hand 

Is  perjured  to  the  bosom  ?     Proteus, 

I  am  sorry  I  must  never  trust  thee  more, 

But  count  the  world  a  stranger  for  thy  sake. 

The  private  wound  is  deepest :  O  time  most  accurst ! 

'Mongst  all  foes,  that  a  friend  should  be  the  worst ! 

Pro.   My  shame  and  guilt  confound  me. — 
Forgive  me,  Valentine  :  if  hearty  sorrow 
13 e  a  sufficient  ransom  for  offence, 

/ 

I  tender  it  here ;  I  do  as  truly  suffer, 
As  e'er  I  did  commit. 

Vol.  Then  I  am  paid  ; 

And  once  again  I  do  receive  thee  honest : — 
Who  by  repentance  is  not  satisfied, 
Js  nor  of  heaven,  nor  earth  ;  for  these  are  pleased ; 
By  penitence  th'  Eternal's  wrath's  appeased : — 
And,  that  my  love  may  appear  plain  and  free, 
All  that  was  mine  in  Silvia,  I  give  thee. 

Jul.    O  me,  unhappy !  [Faints. 

Pro.    Look  to  the  boy. 

Vol.  Why,  boy !  why,  wag !  how  now  ?  what  is 
the  matter  ?  Look  up  ;  speak. 

Jul.  O  good  sir,  my  master  charged  me  to  deliver 
a  ring  to  madam  Silvia ;  which,  out  of  my  neglect,  was 
never  done. 

Pro.    Where  is  that  ring,  boy  ? 

Jul.    Here  'tis  :  this  is  it.  [Gives  a  ring. 

Pro.  How  !  let  me  see  :  why,  this  is  the  ring  I  gave 
to  Julia. 

Jul.  O,  cry  you  mercy,  sir  ;  I  have  mistook  ;  this  is 
the  ring  you  sent  to  Silvia.  [Shows  another  ring. 

Pro.  But,  how  cam'st  thou  by  this  ring  ?  at  my  de 
part,  I  gave  this  unto  Julia. 

Jul.    And  Julia  herself  did  give  it  me  ; 
And  Julia  herself  hath  brought  it  hither. 

Pro.    How!  Julia! 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA.  149 

Jul.    Behold  her  that  gave  aim  to  all  thy  oaths. 
And  entertained  them  deeply  in  her  heart : 
How  oft  hast  thou  with  perjury  cleft  the  root ! l 

0  Proteus,  let  this  habit  make  thee  blush ! 
Be  thou  ashamed,  that  I  have  took  upon  me 
Such  an  immodest  raiment ;  if  shame  live 
In  a  disguise  of  love  : 

It  is  the  lesser  blot  modesty  finds, 

Women  to  change  their  shapes,  than  men  their  minds. 

Pro.    Than  men  their  minds  ?  'tis  true  :  O  heaven  ! 

were  man 

But  constant,  he  were  perfect :  that  one  error 
Fills  him  with  faults ;    makes   him   run   through   all 

the  sins ; 

Inconstancy  falls  off,  ere  it  begins  : 
What  is  in  Silvia's  face,  but  I  may  spy 
More  fresh  in  Julia's,  with  a  constant  eye  ? 

Vol.    Come,  come,  a  hand  from  either  : 
Let  rne  be  blest  to  make  this  happy  close  ? 
'Twere  pity  two  such  friends  should  be  long  foes. 

Pro.    Bear  witness,  heaven,  I  have  my  wish  forever. 

Jul.    And  I  mine. 

Enter  Outlaws,  with  DUKE  and  THURIO. 

Out.   A  prize,  a  prize,  a  prize  ! 

Vol.    Forbear,  forbear,  I  say ;  it  is  my  lord  the  duke. 
Your  grace  is  welcome  to  a  man  disgraced, 
Banished  Valentine. 

Duke.  Sir  Valentine ! 

Thu.    Yonder  is  Silvia ;  and  Silvia's  mine. 

Vol.    Thurio,  give  back,  or  else  embrace  thy  death  ; 
Come  not  within  the  measure  of  my  wrath : 
Do  not  name  Silvia  thine  :  if  once  again, 
Verona  shall  not  hold  thee.     Here  she  stands  ; 
Take  but  possession  of  her  with  a  touch ; — 

1  dare  thee  but  to  breathe  upon  my  love. 

Thu.    Sir  Valentine,  I  care  not  for  her,  I  ; 

i  i.  e.  of  her  heart :  the  allusion  to  archery  is  continued,  and  to  cleaving 
the  pin  in  shooting  at  the  butts. 


150  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA.  [ACT  V 

I  hold  him  but  a  fool,  that  will  endanger 
His  body  for  a  girl  that  loves  him  not : 
I  claim  her  not,  and  therefore  she  is  thine. 

Duke.    The  more  degenerate  and  base  art  thou, 
To  make  such  means  for  her  as  thou  hast  done, 
And  leave  her  on  such  slight  conditions. — 
NOAV,  by  the  honor  of  my  ancestry, 
I  do  applaud  thy  spirit,  Valentine, 
And  think  thee  wrorthy  of  an  empress'  love. 
Know  then,  I  here  forget  all  former  griefs, 
Cancel  all  grudge,  repeal  thee  home  again. — 
Plead  a  new  state  in  thy  unrivalled  merit, 
To  which  I  thus  subscribe, — Sir  Valentine, 
Thou  art  a  gentleman,  and  well  derived ; 
Take  thou  thy  Silvia,  for  thou  hast  deserved  her. 

VaL    I  thank  your  grace ;  the  gift  hath  made  me 

happy. 

I  now  beseech  you,  for  your  daughter's  sake, 
To  grant  one  boon  that  I  shall  ask  of  you. 

Duke.    I  grant  it  for  thine  own,  whate'er  it  be. 

VaL    These  banished  men,  that  I  have  kept  withal, 
Are  men  endued  with  worthy  qualities ; 
Forgive  them  what  they  have  committed  here, 
And  let  them  be  recalled  from  their  exile : 
They  are  reformed,  civil,  full  of  good, 
And  fit  for  great  employment,  worthy  lord. 

Duke.    Thou  hast  prevailed ;    I  pardon  them,  and 

thee : 

Dispose  of  them,  as  thou  know'st  their  deserts. 
Come,  let  us  go  ;  we  will  include 1  all  jars 
With  triumphs,2  mirth,  and  rare  solemnity. 

VaL    And,  as  we  walk  along,  I  dare  be  bold 
With  our  discourse  to  make  your  grace  to  smile : 
What  think  you  of  this  page,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.    I    think  the  boy  hath   grace   in   him ;    he 
blushes. 

VaL    I  warrant  you,  my  lord  ;  more  grace  than  boy. 

1  Include  is  here  used  for  conclude. 

2  Triumphs  are  pageants. 


SC.  IV.]  TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF   VERONA.  151 

Duke.   What  mean  you  by  that  saying  ? 

VaL    Please  you,  I'll  tell  you  as  we  pass  along, 
That  you  will  wonder  what  hath  fortuned. — 
Come,  Proteus ;  'tis  your  penance,  but  to  hear 
The  story  of  your  loves  discovered : 
That  done,  our  day  of  marriage  shall  be  yours ; 
One  feast,  one  house,  one  mutual  happiness.     [Exeunt 


152 


IN  this  play  there  is  a  strange  mixture  of  knowledge  and  ignorance,  of 
care  and  negligence.  The  versification  is  often  excellent,  the  allusions 
are  learned  and  just ;  but  the  author  conveys  his  heroes  by  sea  from  one 
inland  town  to  another  in  the  same  country ;  he  places  the  emperor  at 
Milan,  and  sends  his  young  men  to  attend  him,  but  never  mentions  him 
more ;  he  makes  Proteus,  after  an  interview  with  Silvia,  say  he  has  only 
seen  her  picture ;  and,  if  we  may  credit  the  old  copies,  he  has,  by  mis 
taking  places,  left  his  scenery  inextricable.  The  reason  of  all  this  confu 
sion  seems  to  be,  that  he  took  his  story  from  a  novel,  which  he  sometimes 
followed,  and  sometimes  forsook,  sometimes  remembered,  and  sometimes 
forgot. 

That  this  play  is  rightly  attributed  to  Shakspeare,  I  have  little  doubt. 
If  it  be  taken  from  him,  to  whom  shall  it  be  given  ?  This  question  may 
be  asked  of  all  the  disputed  plays,  except  Titus  Jlndronicus ;  and  it  will 
be  found  more  credible,  that  Shakspeare  might  sometimes  sink  below  his 
highest  flights,  than  that  any  other  should  rise  up  to  his  lowest 

JOHNSON. 

Johnson's  general  remarks  on  this  play  are  just,  except  that  part  in 
which  he  arraigns  the  conduct  of  the  poet,  for  making  Proteus  say  he  had 
only  seen  the  picture  of  Silvia,  when  it  appears  that  he  had  had  a  per 
sonal  interview  with  her.  This,  however,  is  not  a  blunder  of  Shakspeare's, 
but  a  mistake  of  Johnson's,  who  considers  the  passage  alluded  to  in  a 
more  literal  sense  than  the  author  intended  it.  Sir  Proteus,  it  is  true, 
had  seen  Silvia  for  a  feAv  moments ;  but  though  he  could  form  from  thence 
some  idea  of  her  person,  he  was  still  unacquainted  with  her  temper,  man 
ners,  and  the  qualities  of  her  mind.  He  therefore  considers  himself  as 
having  seen  her  picture  only. — The  thought  is  just,  and  elegantly  ex 
pressed. — So,  in  The  Scornful  Lady,  the  elder  Loveless  says  to  her, 


I  was  mad  once,  when  I  loved  pictures ; 

For  what  are  shape  and  colors  else,  but  pictures  ? 


M.  MASON. 


153 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

A  FEW  of  the  incidents  of  this  comedy  might  have  been  taken  from 
an  old  translation  of  II  Pecorone  di  Giovanni  Fiorentino.  The  same 
story  is  to  be  met  with  in  "  The  Fortunate,  the  Deceived,  and  the  Unfor 
tunate  Lovers,  1632."  A  somewhat  similar  one  occurs  in  the  Piacevoli 
Notti  di  Straparola.  JVotte  iv.  Favola  iv. 

The  adventures  of  Falstaff  seem  to  have  been  taken  from  the  story  of 
the  lovers  of  Pisa  in  "  Tarleton's  Newes  out  of  Purgatorie,"  HI.  I.  no  date, 
but  entered  on  the  Stationers'  books  in  1590.  The  fishwife's  tale,  in 
"  Westward  for  Smelts,"  a  book  from  which  Shakspeare  borrowed  part  of 
the  fable  of  Cymbeline,  probably  led  him  to  lay  the  scene  at  Windsor. 

Mr.  Malone  thinks  that  the  following  line  in  the  earliest  edition  of  this 
comedy,  '  Soil  like  my  pinnace  to  those  golden  shores,'  shows  that  it  was 
written  after  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's  return  from  Guiana  in  1596. 

The  first  edition  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  was  printed  in  1G02, 
and  it  was  probably  written  in  1601,  after  the  two  parts  of  King  Henry 
IV.,  being,  as  it  is  said,  composed  at  the  desire  of  Queen  Elizabeth,*  in 
order  to  exhibit  Falstaff  in  love,  when  all  the  pleasantry  which  he  could 
afford  in  any  other  situation  -was  exhausted. 

It  may  not  be  thought  so  clear  that  it  was  written  after  King  Henry  V. 

*  This  story  seems  to  have  been  first  mentioned  by  Dennis  in  the  Dedication  to  his  alter 
ation  of  this  play,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Comical  Gallant."  "  This  comedy,"  says  he,  "  was 
written  at  Queen  Elizabeth's  command,  and  by  her  direction  ;  and  she  was  so  eager  to  see 
it  acted,  that  she  commanded  it  to  be  finished  in  fourteen  days;  and  was  afterwards,  as  tra 
dition  tells  us,  very  well  pleased  at  the  representation."  The  information  probably  came 
originally  from  Uryden,  who,  from  his  intimacy  with  Sir  W.  Davenant,  had  opportunities 
of  learning  many  particulars  concerning  Shakspeare. 

VOL.  i.  20 


154  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR. 

Nym  and  Bardolph  are  both  hanged  in  that  play,  yet  appear  in  the  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor.  Falstaff  is  disgraced  in  King  Henry  IV.  Part  ii.,  and 
dies  in  King  Henry  V.  Yet  in  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  he  talks  as 
if  he  was  still  in  favor  at  court — "  If  it  should  come  to  the  ear  of  the 
court  how  I  have  been  transformed,"  &c. ;  and  Page  discountenances 
Fenton's  addresses  to  his  daughter,  because  he  kept  company  with  the  wild 
Prince  and  with  Poins.  These  circumstances  seem  to  favor  the  suppo 
sition  that  this  play  was  written  between  the  first  and  second  parts  of 
King  Henry  IV.  But  that  it  was  not  written  then  may  be  collected  from 
the  tradition  above  mentioned.  The  truth  probably  is,  that,  though  it 
ought  to  be  read  (as  Dr.  Johnson  observed)  between  the  second  part  of 
Henry  IV.  and  Henry  V.,  it  was  written  after  King  Henry  V.,  and  after 
Shakspeare  had  killed  Falstaff.  In  obedience  to  the  royal  commands, 
having  revived  him,  he  found  it  necessary  at  the  same  time  to  revive  all 
those  persons  with  whom  he  was  wont  to  be  exhibited — Nym,  Bardolph, 
Pistol,  and  the  Page ;  and  disposed  of  them  as  he  found  it  convenient, 
without  a  strict  regard  to  their  situations  or  catastrophes  in  former  plays. 

Mr.  Malone  thinks  that  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  was  revised  and 
enlarged  by  the  author  after  its  first  production.  The  old  edition,  in 
1602,  like  that  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  he  says,  is  apparently  a  rough  draught, 
and  not  a  mutilated  or  imperfect  copy.*  The  precise  time  when  the  al 
terations  and  additions  were  made,  has  not  been  ascertained ;  some  pas 
sages  in  the  enlarged  copy  may  assist  conjecture  on  the  subject,  but 
nothing  decisive  can  be  concluded  from  such  evidence. 

This  comedy  was  not  printed  in  its  present  form  till  1623,  when  it  was 
published  with  the  rest  of  Shakspeare's  plays  in  folio.  The  imperfect 
copy  of  1602  was  again  printed  in  1619. 

The  bustle  and  variety  of  the  incidents,  the  rich  assemblage  of  charac 
ters,  and  the  skilful  conduct  of  the  plot  of  this  delightful  comedy,  are  un 
rivalled  in  any  drama,  ancient  or  modern. 

Falstaff,  the  inimitable  Falstaff,  here  again  « lards  the  lean  earth  "— "  a 
butt  and  a  wit,  a  humorist  and  a  man  of  humor,  a  touchstone  and  a  laugh- 


*  Mr.  Boaden  thinks  that  the  chasms  which  occur  in  the  story  of  the  drama  in  this  old 
spy  afford  evidence  that  it  was  imperfectly  taken  down  during  the  representation. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS.  155 

ing-stock,  a  jester  and  a  jest — the  most  perfect  comic  character  that  ever 
was  exhibited."  The  jealous  Ford,  the  uxorious  Page,  and  their  two  joy 
ous  wives,  are  admirably  drawn — Sir  Hugh  Evans  and  Doctor  Caius  no 
less  so — and  the  duel  scene  between  them  irresistibly  comic.  The  swag 
gering  jolly  Boniface,  mine  host  of  the  Garter,  and  last,  though  not  least, 
master  Slender  and  his  cousin  Shallow,  are  such  a  group  as  were  never 
yet  equalled  by  the  pen  or  pencil  of  genius. 


156 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 


SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF. 

FENTON. 

SHALLOW,  a  country  Justice. 

SLENDER,  Cousin  to  Shallow. 

MR   PAGE'  1 two  Gcntlcmen  dwelling  at  Windsor. 

WILLIAM  PAGE,  a  Boy,  Son  to  Mr.  Page. 

SIR  HUGH  EVANS,  a  Welsh  Parson. 

DR.  CAIUS,  a  French  Physician. 

Host  of  the  Garter  Inn. 

BARDOLPH, \ 

PISTOL,         >  Followers  of  Falstaff. 

NYM,  j 

ROBIN,  Page  to  Falstaff. 

SIMPLE,  Servant  to  Slender. 

RUGBY,  Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 


MRS.  FORD. 

MRS.  PAGE. 

MRS.  ANNE  PAGE,  her  Daughter,  in  love  with  Fentou. 

MRS.  QUICKLY,  Servant  to  Dr.  Caius. 

Servants  to  Page,  Ford,  fyc. 
SCENE.     Windsor,  and  the  Parts  adjacent. 


157 


MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR, 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     Windsor.     Before  Page's  House. 

Enter  JUSTICE,  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and  SIR  1  HUGH 

EVANS. 

Slial.  Sir  Hugh,  persuade  me  not ;  I  will  make  a 
Star-chamber  matter  of  it :  if  he  were  twenty  Sir  John 
Falstaffs,  he  shall  not  abuse  Robert  Shallow,  esquire. 

Slen.  In  the  county  of  Gloster,  justice  of  peace, 
and  cor  am. 

Shot.    Ay,  cousin  Slender,  and  Cust-alorum? 

Slen.  Ay,  and  ratolorum  too  ;  and  a  gentleman  born, 
master  parson ;  who  writes  himself  armigero ;  in  any 
bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or  obligation,  armigero. 

ShaL  Ay,  that  I  do ;  and  have  done  any  time  these 
three  hundred  years. 

Slen.  All  his  successors,  gone  before  him,  have 
done't ;  and  all  his  ancestors,  that  come  after  him, 
may :  they  may  give  the  dozen  white  luces  in  their 
coat. 

ShaL    It  is  an  old  coat. 

Eva.  The  dozen  white  louses  do  become  an  old 
coat  well ;  it  agrees  well,  passant :  it  is  a  familiar 
beast  to  man,  and  signifies — love. 


1  Sir  was  a  title  formerly  applied  to  priests  and  curates  generally. 
Dominus,  being  the  academical  title  of  a  Bachelor  (bas  chevalier)  of  Arts, 
was  usually  rendered  by  Sir  in  English ;  and,  as  most  clerical  persons  had 
taken  that  degree,  it  became  usual  to  style  them  Sir. 

3  A  corruption  of  Custos  Rotulorum. 


158  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  I. 

Shal.  The  luce  is  the  fresh  fish ;  the  salt  fish  is  an 
old  coat.1 

Slen.    I  may  quarter,  coz  ? 

ShaL    You  may,  by  marrying. 

Eva.    It  is  marring  indeed,  if  he  quarter  it 

Shal.   Not  a  whit. 

Eva.  Yes,  pe'r-lady ;  if  he  has  a  quarter  of  your 
coat,  there  is  but  three  skirts  for  yourself,  in  my  simple 
conjectures :  but  that  is  all  one :  If  Sir  John  Falstaff 
have  committed  disparagements  unto  you,  I  am  of  the 
church,  and  will  be  glad  to  do  my  benevolence,  to 
make  atonements  and  compromises  between  you. 

ShaL    The  Council 2  shall  hear  it ;  it  is  a  riot. 

Eva.  It  is  not  meet  the  Council  hear  a  riot ;  there 
is  no  fear  of  Got  in  a  riot :  the  Council,  look  you,  shall 
desire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Got,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot  ; 
take  your  vizaments 3  in  that. 

ShaL  Ha !  o'  my  life,  if  I  w7ere  young  again,  the 
sword  should  end  it. 

Eva.  It  is  petter  that  friends  is  the  sword,  and  end 
it :  and  there  is  also  another  device  in  my  pram,  which, 
peradventure,  prings  goot  discretions  with  it :  There 
is  Anne  Page,  which  is  daughter  to  master  George 
Page,  which  is  pretty  virginity. 

Slen.  Mistress  Anne  Page  ?  She  has  brown  hair, 
and  speaks  small  like  a  woman. 

Eva.  It  is  that  fery  person  for  all  the  'orld,  as  just 
as  you  will  desire ;  and  seven  hundred  pounds  of 
moneys,  and  gold,  and  silver,  is  her  grandsire,  upon  his 
death's  bed  (Got  deliver  to  a  joyful  resurrections !) 
give,  when  she  is  able  to  overtake  seventeen  years 
old  :  it  were  a  goot  motion,  if  we  leave  our  pribbles 


1  It  seems  that  the  latter  part  of  this  speech  should  be  given  to  Sir 
Ilngh.     Shallow  has  just  before  said  the  coat  is  an  old  one;  and  now, 
that  it  is  "the  luce,  the  fresh  fish."     No,  replies  the  parson,  it  cannot  be 
old  and  fresh  too — "the  salt  fish  is  an  old  coat."     Shakspearc  is  supposed 
to  allude  to  the  arms  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  who  is  said  to  have  prosecuted 
him  for  a  misdemeanor  in  his  youth,  and  whom  lie  now  ridiculed  under 
the  character  of  Justice  Shallow. 

2  The  Court  of  Star-chamber  is  meant. 

3  Advisement. 


SC.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  159 

and  prabbles,  and  desire  a  marriage  between  master 
Abraham  and  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Shal.  Did  her  grandsire  leave  her  seven  hundred 
pounds  ? 

Eva.    Ay,  and  her  father  is  make  her  a  petter  penny. 

Shal.  I  know  the  young  gentlewoman ;  she  has 
good  gifts. 

Eva.  Seven  hundred  pounds,  and  possibilities,  is 
good  gifts. 

Shal.  Well,  let  us  see  honest  master  Page  :  Is  Fal- 
staff  there  ? 

Eva.  Shall  I  tell  you  a  lie  ?  I  do  despise  a  liar,  as  I 
do  despise  one  that  is  false ;  or,  as  I  despise  one  that 
is  not  true.  The  knight,  Sir  John,  is  there ;  and,  I 
beseech  you,  be  ruled  by  your  well-willers.  I  will 
peat  the  door  [knocks]  for  master  Page.  What,  hoa ! 
Got  pless  your  house  here  ! 

Enter  PAGE. 

Page.    Who's  there  ? 

Eva.  Here  is  Got's  plessing,  and  your  friend,  and 
justice  Shallow :  and  here  young  master  Slender  ; 
that,  peradventures,  shall  tell  you  another  tale,  if  mat 
ters  grow  to  your  likings. 

Page.  I  am  glad  to  see  your  worships  well :  I 
thank  you  for  my  venison,  master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Master  Page,  I  am  glad  to  see  you :  Much 
good  do  it  your  good  heart !  I  wished  your  venison 
better ;  it  was  ill  killed : — How  doth  good  mistress 
Page  ? — and  I  love  you  always  with  my  heart,  la ; 
with  my  heart. 

P(tge.    Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Shal.    Sir,  I  thank  you  ;  by  yea  and  no,  I  do. 

Page.    I  am  glad  to  see  you,  good  master  Slender. 

Slen.  How  does  your  fallow  greyhound,  sir  ?  I 
heard  say,  he  was  outrun  on  Cotsale.1 

Page.    It  could  not  be  judged,  sir. 


1  The  Cotswold  Hills  in  Gloucestershire,  famous  for  their  fine  turf,  and 
therefore  excellent  for  coursing. 


160  MERRY   WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  I. 

Slcn.    You'll  not  confess,  you'll  not  confess. 

Shal.  That  lie  will  not ; — 'tis  your  fault,  'tis  your 
fault : — 'Tis  a  good  dog. 

Page.    A  cur,  sir. 

Shal.  Sir,  he's  a  good  dog,  and  a  fair  dog :  Can 
there  be  more  said  ?  he  is  good,  and  fair. — Is  Sir  John 
Falstaff  here? 

Page.  Sir,  he  is  within  ;  and  I  would .  I  could  do  a 
good  office  between  you. 

Eva.    It  is  spoke  as  a  Christians  ought  to  speak. 

Shal.    He  hath  wronged  me,  master  Page. 

Page.    Sir,  he  doth  in  some  sort  confess  it. 

Shal.  If  it  be  confessed,  it  is  not  redressed ;  is  not 
that  so,  master  Page  ?  He  hath  wronged  me  ;  indeed 
he  hath  ; — at  a  word,  he  hath  ; — believe  me  ; — Robert 
Shallow,  esquire,  saith  he  is  wronged. 

Page.    Here  comes  Sir  John. 

Enter  SIR  JOHN    FALSTAFF,    BARDOLPH,    NYM,    and 

PISTOL. 

Fal.  Now,  master  Shallow ;  you'll  complain  of  me 
to  the  king  ? 

Shal.  Knight,  you  have  beaten  my  men,  killed  my 
deer,  and  broke  open  my  lodge. 

Fal.    But  not  kissed  your  keeper's  daughter  ? 

ShaL    Tut,  a  pin  !  this  shall  be  answered. 

Fal.  I  will  answer  it  straight; — I  have  done  all 
this  : — That  is  now  answered. 

Shal.    The  Council  shall  know  this. 

Fal.  'Twere  better  for  you,  if  it  were  known  in 
counsel :  you  il  be  laughed  at. 

Eva.    Pauca  verba.  Sir  John,  good  worts. 

Fal.  Good  worts ! l  good  cabbage. — Slender,  I 
broke  your  head ;  What  matter  have  you  against  me  ? 

Slen.  Marry,  sir,  I  have  matter  in  my  head  against 
you ;  and  against  your  cony-catching  ~  rascals,  Bar- 

1  Worts  Tvas  the  ancient  term  for  all  the  cabbage  kind. 

2  A  common  name  for  cheats  and  sharpers  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth. 
"By  a  metaphor  taken  from  those  that  rob  warrens  and  conic  grounds" — • 

^s  Did. 


SC.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  161 

dolph,  Nym,  and  Pistol.  They  carried  me  to  the 
tavern,  and  made  me  drunk,  and  afterwards  picked  my 
pocket. 

Bar.    You  Banbury  cheese  ! l 

Slen.    Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Fist.    How  nowr,  Mephostophilus  ?  2 

Slen.    Ay,  it  is  no  matter. 

Nym.  Slice,  I  say !  pauca,  pauca ; 3  slice !  that's 
my  humor. 

Slen.  Where's  Simple,  my  man  ?  can  you  tell,  cousin  ? 

Eva.  Peace,  I  pray  you  !  Now  let  us  understand  : 
There  is  three  umpires  in  this  matter,  as  I  understand : 
that  is — master  Page,  fidelicet,  master  Page ;  and 
there  is  myself,  fidelicet,  myself;  and  the  three  party 
is,  lastly  and  finally,  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 

Page.    We  three,  to  hear  it,  and  end  it  between  them. 

Eva.  Fery  goot :  I  will  make  a  prief  of  it  in  my 
note-book ;  and  we  will  afterwards  'ork  upon  the  cause 
with  as  great  discreetly  as  we  can. 

Fal.    Pistol, 

Pist.    He  hears  with  ears. 

Eva.  The  tevil  and  his  tarn !  what  phrase  is  this, 
He  hears  with  car  f  Why,  it  is  affectations. 

Fal.    Pistol,  did  you  pick  master  Slender's  purse  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  by  these  gloves,  did  he,  (or  I  would  I 
might  never  come  in  mine  own  great  chamber  again 

o  O  £3 

else,)  of  seven  groats  in  mill-sixpences,  and  two  Ed 
ward  shovel-boards,4  that  cost  me  two  shilling  and 
twopence  a-piece  of  Yead  Miller,  by  these  gloves. 

Fal.   Is  this  true,  Pistol  ? 

Eva.    No  ;  it  is  false,  if  it  is  a  pick-purse. 

Pist.  Ha,  thou  mountain-foreigner ! — Sir  John,  and 
master  mine, 


1  Said  in  allusion  to  the  thin  carcass  of  Slender.     So,  in  Jack  Drum's 
Entertainment,  1001 — "Put  off  your  clothes,  and  you  are  like  a  Banbunj 
Cheese,  nothing  but  paring." 

2  The  name  of  a  spirit,  or  familiar,  in  the  old  storybook  of  Faustus.     It 
was  a  cant  phrase,  probably,  for  an  ugly  fellow. 

3  Few  words. 

4  Mill-sixpences  were  used  as  counters ;  and  King  Edward's  shillings 
used  in  the  game  of  shuffle-board. 

VOL.    I.  21 


162  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  I. 

I  combat  challenge  of  this  latten  bilbo  : l 

Word  of  denial  in  thy  labras 2  here  ; 

Word  of  denial ;  froth  and  scum,  thou  liest ! 

Slen.    By  these  gloves,  then,  'twas  he. 

Nym.  Be  avised,  sir,  and  pass  good  humors:  I  wdll 
say,  marry,  trap,  with  you,  if  you  run  the  nut-hook's3 
humor  on  me  ;  that  is  the  very  note  of  it. 

Slen.  By  this  hat,  then,  he  in  the  red  face  had  it :  for 
though  I  cannot  remember  what  I  did  when  you  made 
me  drunk,  yet  I  am  not  altogether  an  ass. 

Fal.    What  say  you,  Scarlet  and  John  ? 

Bard.  Why,  sir,  for  my  part,  I  say,  the  gentleman 
had  drunk  himself  out  of  his  five  sentences. 

Eva.    It  is  his  five  senses  :  fie,  what  the  ignorance  is  ! 

Bard.  And  being  fap,4  sir,  was,  as  they  say, 
cashiered  ;  and  so  conclusions  passed  the  careires.5 

Slen.  Ay,  you  spake  in  Latin  then,  too;  but  'tis  no 
matter :  I'll  ne'er  be  drunk  whilst  I  live  again,  but  in 
honest,  civil,  godly  company,  for  this  trick :  If  I  be 
drunk,  I'll  be  drunk  with  those  that  have  the  fear  of 
God,  and  not  with  drunken  knaves. 

Eva.    So  Got  'udge  me,  that  is  a  virtuous  mind. 

Fal.  You  hear  all  these  matters  denied,  gentlemen , 
you  hear  it. 

Enter  MISTRESS  ANNE  PAGE,  icith  wine ;  MISTRESS 
FORD  and  MISTRESS  PAGE  following. 

Page.  Nay,  daughter,  carry  the  wine  in ;  we'll 
drink  within.  [Exit  ANNE  PAGE. 

Slen.    O  heaven  !  this  is  mistress  Anne  Page. 

Page.    How  now,  mistress  Ford  ? 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford,  by  my  troth,  you  are  very  well 
met :  by  your  leave,  good  mistress.  [kissing  her. 

Page.    Wife,    bid    these      gentlemen    welcome : — 

1  Latten,  from  the  Fr.  Laiton,  Brass ;  Hilbo,  from  Jlilboa  in  Spain, 
where  fine  sword-blades  were   made.     Pistol  therefore  calls  Slender  a 
weak  blade  of  base  mdal,  as  one  of  brass  would  be. 

2  Lips. 

'3  The  meaning  apparently  is,  "  if  you  try  to  bring  me  to  justice." 

4  Fup  was  evidently  a  cant  term  for  foolish. 

5  A  military  phrase  for  running  the  charge  in  a  tournament  or  attack. 


SC.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  163 

Come,  we  have  a  hot  venison  pasty  to  dinner ;  come, 

gentlemen,  I  hope  we  shall  drink  down  all  unkindness. 

[Exeunt  all  but  SHAL.,  SLENDER,  and  EVANS. 

Slcn.    I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings   I   had  my 

book  of  Songs  and  Sonnets l  here  : — 

Enter  SIMPLE. 

How  now,  Simple !  where  have  you  been  ?  I  must 
wait  on  myself,  must  I  ?  You  have  not  The  Book  of 
Riddles  about  you,  have  you  ? 

Sim.  Book  of  Riddles !  why,  did  you  not  lend  it  to 
Alice  Shortcake  upon  Allhallowmas  last,  a  fortnight 
afore  Michaelmas  ? 2 

Shal.  Come,  coz  ;  come,  coz  ;  we  stay  for  you.  A 
word  with  you,  coz :  marry  this,  coz :  There  is,  as 
'twere,  a  tender,  a  kind  of  tender,  made  afar  off  by  Sir 
Hugh  here  ; — Do  you  understand  me  ? 

Slen.  Ay,  sir,  you  shall  find  me  reasonable  ;  if  it  be 
so,  I  shall  do  that  that  is  reason. 

Shal.    Nay,  but  understand  me. 

Slen.    So  I  do,  sir. 

Eva.  Give  ear  to  his  motions,  master  Slender  :  I  will 
description  the  matter  to  you,  if  you  be  capacity  of  it. 

Slen.  Nay,  I  will  do  as  my  cousin  Shallow  says  :  I 
pray  you,  pardon  me  ;  he's  a  justice  of  peace  in  his 
country,  simple  though  I  stand  here. 

Eva.  But  this  is  not  the-  question ;  the  question  is 
concerning  your  marriage. 

Shal.    Ay,  there's  the  point,  sir. 

Eva.  Marry,  is  it ;  the  very  point  of  it ;  to  mistress 
Anne  Page. 

Slen.  Why,  if  it  be  so,  I  will  marry  her  upon  any 
reasonable  demands. 

Eva.  But  can  you  affection  the  'oman  ?  Let  us 
command  to  know  that  of  your  mouth,  or  of  your  lips ; 
for  divers  philosophers  hold  that  the  lips  is  parcel3  of 

1  A  popular  book  of  Shakspeare's  time,  "  Songes  and  Sonnettes,  written 
by  the  Earle  of  Surrey  and  others,"  and  published  in  1557. 

2  This  is  an  intended  blunder. 

3  i.  e.  part,  a  law  term. 


164  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  J. 

the  mouth  ; — Therefore,  precisely,  can  you  carry  your 
good  will  to  the  maid  ? 

ShaL    Cousin  Abraham  Slender,  can  you  love  her  ? 

SIcn.  I  hope,  sir, — I  will  do  as  it  shall  become  one 
that  would  do  reason. 

Eva.  Nay,  Got's  lords  and  his  ladies,  you  must 
speak  possitable,  if  you  can  carry  her  your  desires 
towards  her. 

ShaL  That  you  must :  Will  you,  upon  good  dowry, 
marry  her  ? 

SIcn.  I  will  do  a  greater  thing  than  that,  upon  your 
request,  cousin,  in  any  reason. 

ShaL  Nay,  conceive  me,  conceive  me,  sweet  coz  ; 
what  I  do  is  to  pleasure  you,  coz  :  Can  you  love  the 
maid  ? 

Slen.  I  will  marry  her,  sir,  at  your  request ;  but  if 
there  be  no  great  love  in  the  beginning,  yet  heaven 
may  decrease  it  upon  better  acquaintance,  when  we 
are  married,  and  have  more  occasion  to  know  one 
another :  I  hope  upon  familiarity  will  grow  more  con 
tempt  :  but  if  you  say,  marry  her,  I  will  marry  her, 
that  I  am  freely  dissolved,  and  dissolutely. 

Eva.  It  is  a  fery  discretion  answer ;  save  the  fauP 
is  in  the  'ort  dissolutely :  the  'ort  is,  according  to  our 
meaning,  resolutely  ; — his  meaning  is  good. 

ShaL    Ay,  I  think  my  cousin  meant  well. 

Slen.    Ay,  or  else  I  would  I  might  be  hanged,  la. 

Re-enter  ANNE  PAGE. 

SJtaL  Here  comes  fair  mistress  Anne : — Would  I 
were  young  for  your  sake,  mistress  Anne  ! 

Anne.  The  dinner  is  on  the  table  ;  my  father  desires 
your  worships'  company. 

ShaL    I  will  wait  on  him,  fair  mistress  Anne  ! 

Eva.  Od's  plessed  will !  I  will  not  be  absence  at 
the  grace.  [Exeunt  SHALLOW  and  SIR  H.  EVANS. 

Anne.    Will't  please  your  worship  to  come  in,  sir  ? 

Slen.  No,  I  thank  you,  forsooth,  heartily;  I  am 
very  well. 

Anne.    The  dinner  attends  you,  sir. 


SC.  1.]  MERRY   WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  165 

Slen.  I  am  not  a-hungry,  I  thank  you,  forsooth : 
Go,  sirrah,  for  all  you  are  my  man,  go,  wait  upon  my 
cousin  Shallow.1  [Exit  SIMPLE.]  A  justice  of  peace 
sometime  may  be  beholden  to  his  friend  for  a  man  : — 
I  keep  but  three  men  and  a  boy  yet,  till  my  mother  be 
dead  :  But  what  though  ?  yet  I  live  like  a  poor  gentle 
man  born. 

Anne.  I  may  not  go  in  without  your  worship  :  they 
will  not  sit  till  you  come. 

Slen.  Pfaith,  I'll  eat  nothing ;  I  thank  you  as  much 
as  though  I  did. 

Anne.    I  pray  you,  sir,  walk  in. 

Slen.  I  had  rather  walk  here,  I  thank  you  :  I  bruised 
my  shin  the  other  day  with  playing  at  sword  and  dag 
ger  with  a  master  of  fence,2  three  veneys3  for  a  dish 
of  stewed  prunes ;  and,  by  my  troth,  I  cannot  abide 
the  smell  of  hot  meat  since.  Why  do  your  dogs  bark 
so  ?  be  there  bears  i'  the  town  ? 

Anne.    I  think  there  are,  sir  ;  I  heard  them  talked  of. 

Slen.  I  love  the  sport  well ;  but  I  shall  as  soon 
quarrel  at  it  as  any  man  in  England : — You  are  afraid 
if  you  see  the  bear  loose,  are  you  not  ? 

Anne.    Ay,  indeed,  sir. 

Slen.  That's  meat  and  drink  to  me,  now :  I  have 
seen  Sackerson  4  loose  twenty  times  ;  and  have  taken 
him  by  the  chain :  but,  I  warrant  you,  the  women 
have  so  cried  and  shrieked  at  it,  that  it  passed : 5 — but 
women,  indeed,  cannot  abide  'em ;  they  are  very  ill- 
favored,  rough  things. 

Re-enter  PAGE. 

Page.  Come,  gentle  master  Slender,  come ;  we 
stay  for  you. 

Slen.    I'll  eat  nothing  ;  I  thank  you,  sir. 

1  It  was  formerly  the  custom  in  England  for  persons  to  be  attended  at 
dinner  by  their  own  servants  wherever  they  dined. 

2  A  person  who  had  taken  his  master's  degree  in  the  science.     There 
were  three  degrees — a  master's,  a  provost's,  and  a  scholar's. 

3  Veney,  or  Venue,  Fr.,  a  touch  or  hit  in  the  body  at  fencing,  &c. 

4  The  name  of  a  bear  exhibited  at  Paris  Garden,  in  Southwark. 

5  i.  e.  passed  all  expression. 


166  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  I. 

Page,  By  cock  and  pye,1  you  shall  not  choose,  sir : 
come,  come. 

Slen.    Nay,  pray  you,  lead  the  way. 

Page.    Come  on,  sir. 

Slen.    Mistress  Anne,  yourself  shall  go  first. 

Anne.    Not  I,  sir ;  pray  you,  keep  on. 

Slen.  Truly,  I  will  not  go  first,  truly,  la :  I  will  not 
do  you  that  wrong. 

Anne.    I  pray  you,  sir. 

Slen.  I'll  rather  be  unmannerly  than  troublesome : 
you  do  yourself  wrong,  indeed,  la.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     The  same. 

Enter  SIR  HUGH  EVANS  and  SIMPLE. 

Eva.  Go  your  ways,  and  ask  of  Doctor  Cains' 
house,  which  is  the  way :  and  there  dwells  one  mis 
tress  Quickly,  which  is  in  the  manner  of  his  nurse,  or 
his  dry  nurse,  or  his  cook,  or  his  laundry,  his  washer, 
and  his  wringer. 

Sim.   Well,  sir. 

Eva.  Nay,  it  is  petter  yet : give  her  this  letter ; 

for  it  is  a  'oman  that  altogether's  acquaintance  with 
mistress  Anne  Page ;  and  the  letter  is,  to  desire  and 
require  her  to  solicit  your  master's  desires  to  mistress 
Anne  Page  :  I  pray  you,  be  gone.  I  will  make  an 
end  of  my  dinner  ;  there's  pippins  and  cheese  to  come. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter    FALSTAFF,    Host,   BARDOLPH,    NYM,    PISTOL, 
and  ROBIN. 

Fal.    Mine  host  of  the  Garter, — 
Host.    What  says  my  bully-rook  ?     Speak  scholarly, 
and  wisely. 

1  A  popular  adjuration. 


SC.  III.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  167 

FaL  Truly,  mine  host,  I  must  turn  away  some  of 
my  followers. 

Host.  Discard,  bully  Hercules;  cashier;  let  them 
wag ;  trot,  trot. 

FaL    I  sit  at  ten  pounds  a  week. 

Host.  Thou'rt  an  emperor,  Caesar,  Keisar,  and 
Pheezar.  I  will  entertain  Bardolph  ;  he  shall  draw,  he 
shall  tap :  said  I  well,  bully  Hector  ? 

FaL    Do  so,  good  mine  host. 

Host.  I  have  spoke ;  let  him  follow :  Let  me  see 
thee  froth,  and  lime  : 1  I  am  at  a  word  ;  follow. 

[Exit  Host. 

FaL  Bardolph,  follow  him ;  a  tapster  is  a  good 
trade :  an  old  cloak  makes  a  new  jerkin ;  a  withered 
serving-man,  a  fresh  tapster  :  Go ;  adieu. 

Bard.    It  is  a  life  that  I  have  desired ;  I  will  thrive. 

[Exit  BARD. 

Pist.  O  base  Gongarian  wight !  wilt  thou  the 
spigot  wield  ? 

Nym.  He  was  gotten  in  drink :  Is  not  the  humor 
conceited  ?  His  mind  is  not  heroic,  and  there's  the 
humor  of  it. 

FaL  I  am  glad  I  am  so  acquit  of  this  tinder-box ; 
his  thefts  were  too  open :  his  filching  was  like  an  un 
skilful  singer,  he  kept  not  time. 

Nym.  The  good  humor  is,  to  steal  at  a  minute's 
rest. 

Pist.  Convey,  the  wise  it  call :  Steal !  foh  ;  a  fico 2 
for  the  phrase  ! 

FaL    Well,  sirs,  I  am  almost  out  at  heels. 

Pist.    Why,  then,  let  kibes  ensue. 

FaL  There  is  no  remedy ;  I  must  cony-catch ;  1 
must  shift. 

Pist.    Young  ravens  must  have  food. 

FaL   Which  of  you  know  Ford  of  this  town  ? 

Pist.    I  ken  the  wight ;  he  is  of  substance  good. 

1  To  froth  beer  and  to  lime  sack  were  tapster's  tricks.     Mr.  Steeveng 
says  the  first  was  done  by  putting  soap  in  the  bottom  of  the  tankard ;  the 
other  by  mixing  lime  with  the  wine  to  make  it  sparkle  in  the  glass. 

2  «  AJico  for  the  phrase."     See  K.  Henrv  IV.  Part  2.  A.  2. 


168  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  I. 

Fal.  My  honest  lads,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  am 
about. 

Pist.    Two  yards,  and  more. 

Fal.  No  quips  now,  Pistol ;  indeed  I  am  in  the 
waist  two  yards  about ;  but  I  am  now  about  no  waste  ; 
I  am  about  thrift.  Briefly,  I  do  mean  to  make  love  to 
Ford's  wife ;  I  spy  entertainment  in  her ;  she  dis 
courses,  she  carves,1  she  gives  the  leer  of  invitation  :  I 
can  construe  the  action  of  her  familiar  style  ;  and  the 
hardest  voice  of  her  behavior,  to  be  Englished  rightly, 
is,  /  am  Sir  John  Falstaff^s. 

Pist.  He  hath  studied  her  well,  and  translated  her 
wrell ;  out  of  honesty  into  English. 

Nym.    The  anchor  is  deep  ;  will  that  humor  pass  ? 

Fal.  Now,  the  report  goes,  she  has  all  the  rule  of 
her  husband's  purse  ;  she  hath  legions  of  angels.2 

Pist.  As  many  devils  entertain ;  and,  To  her,  boy, 
say  I. 

Nym.  The  humor  rises ;  it  is  good ;  humor  me  the 
angels. 

Fal.  1  have  writ  me  here  a  letter  to  her :  and  here 
another  to  Page's  wife  ;  who  even  now  gave  me  good 
eyes  too,  examined  my  parts  with  most  judicious 
eyliads  : 3  sometimes  the  beam  of  her  view  gilded  my 
foot,  sometimes  my  portly  belly. 

Pist.    Then  did  the  sun  on  dunghill  shine. 

Nym.    I  thank  thee  for  that  humor.4 

Fal.  O,  she  did  so  course  o'er  my  exteriors  with 
such  a  greedy  intention,  that  the  appetite  of  her  eye 
did  seem  to  scorch  me  up  like  a  burning  glass  !  Here's 
another  letter  to  her :  she  bears  the  purse  too :  she  is 
a  region  in  Guiana,  all  gold  and  bounty.  I  will  be 


1  It  seems  to  have  been  a  mark  of  kindness  when  a  lady  carved  to  a 
gentleman. 

2  Gold  coin. 

3  Oeillades,   French.     Ogles,  wanton  looks  of  the  eyes.      Cotgrave 
translates  it,  "  to  cast  a  sheep's  eye." 

4  What  distinguishes  the  language  of  Nym  from  that  of  the  other  at 
tendants  on  Falstaff  is  the  constant  repetition  of  this  phrase.     In  the  time 
of  Shakspeare  such  an  affectation  seems  to  have  heen  sufficient  to  mark  a 
character.     Some  modern  dramatists  have  also  thought  so. 


SC.  III.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  169 

cheater 1  to  them  both,  and  they  shall  be  exchequers  to 
me ;  they  shall  be  my  East  and  West  Indies,  and  I 
will  trade  to  them  both.  Go,  bear  thou  this  letter  to 
mistress  Page ;  and  thou  this  to  mistress  Ford :  we 
will  thrive,  lads,  we  will  thrive. 

Pist.    Shall  I  Sir  Pandarus  of  Troy  become, 
And  by  my  side  wear  steel  ?  then,  Lucifer  take  all ! 

Nym.    I  will  run   no  base  humor ;    here,  take   the 
humor-letter ;  I  will  keep  the  'havior  of  reputation. 

FaL    Hold,  sirrah,  [to  ROB.]  bear  you  these  letters 

tightly; 

Sail  like  my  pinnace  to  these  golden  shores. — 
Rogues,  hence,  avaunt !  vanish  like  hailstones,  go ; 
Trudge,  plod,  away,  o'  the  hoof;  seek  shelter,  pack! 
Falstaffwill  learn  the  humor  of  this  age, 
French  thrift,  you  rogues ;  myself,  and  skirted  page. 

[Exeunt  FALSTAFF  and  ROBIN. 

Pist.    Let  vultures  gripe  thy  guts !  for  gourd  and 

fullam 2  holds, 

And  high  and  low  beguile  the  rich  and  poor : 
Tester3  I'll  have  in  pouch,  when  thou  shalt  lack, 
Base  Phrygian  Turk ! 

Nym.    I    have    operations   in    my  head,    which   be 
humors  of  revenge. 

Pist.    Wilt  thou  revenge  ? 

Nym.    By  welkin,  and  her  star  ! 

Pist.    With  wit,  or  steel  ? 

Nym.   With  both  the  humors,  I : 
I  will  discuss  the  humor  of  this  love  to  Page. 

O 

Pist.    And  I  to  Ford  shall  eke  unfold, 

How  Falstaff,  varlet  vile, 
His  dove  will  prove,  his  gold  will  hold, 

And  his  soft  couch  defile. 
Nym.  My  humor  shall  not  cool :  I  will  incense 

1  Escheatour,  an  officer  in  the  Exchequer. 

2  In  Decker's  Bellman  of  London,  1640,  among  the  false  dice  are 
enumerated  "  a  bale  of  f ullams  " — "  a  bale  of  gordes,  with  as  many  high 
men  as  low  men  for  passage."     The  false  dice  were  chiefly  made  at  Ful- 
ham ;  hence  the  name.    The  manner  in  which  they  were  made  is  described 
in  The  Complete  Gamester,  1676,  12mo. 

3  Sixpence  I'll  have  in  pocket 

VOL.  i.  22 


170  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  I. 

Page  to  deal  with  poison  ;  I  will  possess  him  with  yel 
lowness,1  for  the  revolt  of  mien  is  dangerous :  that  is 
my  true  humor. 

Pist.  Thou  art  the  Mars  of  malcontents :  I  second 
thee  ;  troop  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Dr.  Caius's  House. 

Enter  MRS.  QUICKLY,  SIMPLE,  and  RUGBY. 

Quick.  What ;  John  Rugby ! — I  pray  thee,  go  to 
the  casement,  and  see  if  you  can  see  my  master,  mas 
ter  Doctor  Cains,  coming :  if  he  do,  i'  faith,  and  find 
any  body  in  the  house,  here  will  be  an  old  abusing  of 
God's  patience,  and  the  king's  English. 

Rug.    I'll  go  watch.  [Exit  RUGBY. 

Quick.  Go ;  and  we'll  have  a  posset  for't  soon  at 
night,  in  faith,  at  the  latter  end  of  a  sea-coal  fire. — An 
honest,  willing,  kind  fellow,  as  ever  servant  shall 
come  in  house  withal ;  and,  I  warrant  you,  no  tell-tale, 
nor  no  breed-bate  : 2  his  worst  fault  is,  that  he  is  given 
to  prayer ;  he  is  something  peevish  that  way :  but  no 
body  but  has  his  fault; — but  let  that  pass.  Peter 
Simple,  you  say,  your  name  is  ? 

Sim.    Ay,  for  a  fault  of  a  better. 

Quick.    And  master  Slender's  your  master  ? 

Sim.    Ay,  forsooth. 

Quick.  Docs  he  not  wear  a  great  round  beard,  like 
a  glover's  paring  knife  ? 

Sim.  No,  forsooth :  he  hath  but  a  little  wee  face, 
with  a  little  yellow  beard ;  a  Cain-colored  beard.3 

Quick.   A  softly-sprighted  man,  is  he  not  ? 

Sim.  Ay,  forsooth :  but  he  is  as  tall  a  man  of  his 
hands,4  as  any  is  between  this  and  his  head ;  he  hath 
fought  with  a  warrener.5 

1  Jealousy. 

2  i.  e.  breeder  of  debate. 

3  It  is  said  that  Cain  and  Judas,  in  old  pictures  and  tapestry,  were  con 
stantly  represented  with  yellow  beards. 

4  A  free  version  of  the  French  Homme  haut  a  la  main. 

5  The  keeper  of  a  warren. 


SC.  IV.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  171 

Quick.  How  say  you  ? — O,  I  should  remember  him; 
Does  he  not  hold  up  his  head,  as  it  were  ?  and  strut  in 
his  gait  ? 

Sim.    Yes,  indeed,  does  he. 

Quick.  Well,  heaven  send  Anne  Page  no  worse  for 
tune  ?  Tell  master  parson  Evans,  I  will  do  what  I  can 
for  your  master :  Anne  is  a  good  girl,  and  I  wish 

Re-enter  RUGBY. 

Rug.    Out,  alas  !  here  comes  my  master. 

Quick.  We  shall  all  be  shent : L  Run  in  here,  good 
young  man  ;  go  into  this  closet.  [Shuts  Simple  in  the 
closet.]  He  will  not  stay  long. — What,  John  Rugby  ! 
John,  what,  John,  I  say! — Go,  John,  go  inquire  for 
my  master ;  I  doubt,  he  be  not  well,  that  he  comes 
not  home  : — and  down,  down,  adown-a,  &c.  [Sings. 

Enter  DOCTOR  CAIUS. 

Caius.  Vat  is  you  sing  ?  I  do  not  like  dese  toys  ; 
Pray  you,  go  and  vetch  me  in  my  closet  un  boitier 
verd ;  a  box,  a  green-a  box ;  Do  intend  vat  I  speak  ? 
a-green-a  box. 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth,  I'll  fetch  it  you.  1  am  glad 
he  went  not  in  himself;  if  he  had  found  the  young 
man,  he  would  have  been  horn-mad.  [Aside. 

Caius.  Fe,  fe,  fe,  fe !  mai  foi,  il  fait  fort  chaud. 
Je  m'en  vais  a  la  Cour, — la  grande  affaire. 

Quick.    Is  it  this,  sir  ? 

Caius.  Ouy ;  mette  le  au  mon  pocket ;  Depeclie, 
quickly : — Vere  is  dat  knave  Rugby  ? 

Quick.    What,  John  Rugby !  John  ! 

Rug.    Here,  sir. 

Caius.  You  are  John  Rugby,  and  you  are  Jack 
Rugby  :  Come,  take-a  your  rapier,  and  come  after  my 
heel  to  de  court. 

Rug.    'Tis  ready,  sir,  here  in  the  porch. 

Caius.    By  my  trot,   I  tarry  too  long : — Od's  me  ! 

1  Ruined 


172  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  I. 

Qu^ay  foublief  dere  is  some  simples  in  my  closet,  dat 
I  vill  not  for  the  varld  I  shall  leave  behind. 

Quick.  Ah  me  !  he'll  find  the  young  man  there,  and 
be  mad. 

Cains.  O  diable,  diable  !  vat  is  in  my  closet  ?— Vil- 
lany  ?  larron!  [Pulling  Simple  out.]  Rugby,  my 
rapier. 

Quick.    Good  master,  be  content. 

Cains.    Verefore  shall  I  be  content-a  ? 

Quick.    The  young  man  is  an  honest  man. 

Cains.  Vat  shall  de  honest  man  do  in  my  closet ? 
dere  is  no  honest  man  dat  shall  come  in  my  closet. 

Quick.  I  beseech  you,-  be  not  so  flegmatic ;  hear 
the  truth  of  it :  He  came  of  an  errand  to  me  from  par 
son  Hugh. 

Cains.    Veil. 

Sim.    Ay,  forsooth,  to  desire  her  to 

Quick.    Peace,  I  pray  you. 

Cains.    Peace-a  your  tongue  : — Speak-a  your  tale. 

Sim.  To  desire  this  honest  gentlewoman,  your  maid, 
to  speak  a  good  word  to  mistress  Anne  Page  for  my 
master,  in  the  way  of  marriage. 

Quick.  This  is  all,  indeed,  la ;  but  I'll  ne'er  put  my 
finger  in  the  fire,  and  need  not. 

Cains.  Sir  Hugh  send-a  you  ? — Rugby,  baillez  me 
some  paper: — Tarry  you  a  little-a while.  [Writes. 

Quick.  I  am  glad  he  is  so  quiet :  if  he  had  been 
thoroughly  moved,  you  should  have  heard  him  so  loud, 
and  so  melancholy  ; — But  notwithstanding,  man,  I'll  do 
your  master  what  good  I  can  :  and  the  very  yea  and  the 
no  is,  the  French  doctor,  my  master, — I  may  call  him 
my  master,  look  you,  for  I  keep  his  house  ;  and  I  wash, 
wring,  brew,  bake,  scour,  dress  meat  and  drink,  make 
the  beds,  and  do  all  myself; — 

Sim.  'Tis  a  great  charge,  to  come  under  one  body's 
hand. 

Quick.  Are  you  avised  o'  that  ?  you  shall  find  it  a 
great  charge  :  and  to  be  up  early,  and  down  late  : — 
but  notwithstanding  (to  tell  you  in  your  ear ;  I  would 
have  no  words  of  it ;)  my  master  himself  is  in  love 


SC.  IV.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  173 

with  mistress  Anne  Page :  but  notwithstanding  that, 
— I  know  Anne's  mind, — that's  neither  here  nor 
there. 

Caius.  You  jack'nape ;  give-a  dis  letter  to  Sir 
Hugh ;  by  gar,  it  is  a  shallenge  :  I  vill  cut  his  troat  in 
de  park ;  and  I  vill  teach  a  scurvy  jack-a-nape  priest 
to  meddle  or  make  : — you  may  be  gone  ;  it  is  not 
good  you  tarry  here  : — by  gar,  I  vill  cut  all  his  two 
stones ;  by  gar,  he  shall  not  have  a  stone  to  trow  at 
his  dog.  [Exit  SIMPLE. 

Quick.    Alas,  he  speaks  but  for  his  friend. 

Cains.  It  is  no  matter-a  for  dat : — do  not  you 
tell-a  me  dat  I  shall  have  Anne  Page  for  myself? — by 
gar,  I  vill  kill  de  Jack  priest ;  and  I  have  appointed 
mine  host  of  de  Jarterre  to  measure  our  weapon  : — by 
gar.  I  vill  myself  have  Anne  Page. 

Quick.  Sir,  the  maid  loves  you,  and  all  shall  be 
well :  we  must  give  folks  leave  to  prate :  What,  the 
good-jer ! l 

Caius.  Rugby,  come  to  the  court  vid  me  ; — By  gar, 
if  I  have  not  Anne  Page,  I  shall  turn  your  head  out 
of  my  door  : — Follow  my  heels,  Rugby. 

[Exeunt  CAIUS  and  RUGBY. 

Quick.  You  shall  have  An  fools-head  of  your  own. 
No,  I  know  Anne's  mind  for  that :  never  a  woman  in 
Windsor  knows  more  of  Anne's  mind  than  I  do ;  nor 
can  do  more  than  I  do  with  her,  I  thank  heaven. 

Pent.    [Within.']     Who's  within  there,  ho? 

Quick.  Who's  there,  I  trow  ?  Come  near  the 
house,  I  pray  you. 

Enter  FENTON. 

Pent.    How  now,  good  woman  :  how  dost  thou  ? 

Quick.  The  better,  that  it  pleases  your  good  wor 
ship  to  ask. 

Pent.    What  news  ?  how  docs  pretty  mistress  Anne? 

Quick.  In  truth,  sir,  and  she  is  pretty,  and  honest, 
and  gentle  ;  and  one  that  is  your  friend,  I  can  tell  you 
that  by  the  way  ;  I  praise  heaven  for  it. 

1  She  means  to  say  goiijere.     See  Vol.  VII.  p.  121.  note  1. 


174  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  II. 

Pent.  Shall  I  do  any  good,  thinkest  thou  ?  Shall  1 
not  lose  my  suit  ? 

Quick.  Troth,  sir,  all  is  in  his  hands  above :  but 
notwithstanding,  master  Fenton,  I'll  be  sworn  on  a 
book,  she  loves  you : — Have  not  your  worship  a  wart 
above  your  eye  ? 

Pent.    Yes,  marry,  have  I ;  what  of  that  ? 

Quick.  Well,  thereby  hangs  a  tale  ; — good  faith,  it 
is  such  another  Nan : — but,  I  detest,1  an  honest  maid 
as  ever  broke  bread : — We  had  an  hour's  talk  of  that 
wart ; — I  shall  never  laugh  but  in  that  maid's  com 
pany  ! — But,  indeed,  she  is  given  too  much  to  alli- 
cholly 2  and  musing  :  But  for  you — Well,  go  to. 

Pent.  Well,  I  shall  see  her  to-day:  Hold,  there's 
money  for  thee ;  let  me  have  thy  voice  in  my  behalf: 
if  thou  seest  her  before  me,  commend  me — 

Quick.  Will  I  ?  i'  faith,  that  we  will :  and  I  will  tell 
your  worship  more  of  the  wart,  the  next  time  W7e  have 
confidence  ;  and  of  other  wooers. 

Pent.    Well,  farewell ;  I  am  in  great  haste  now. 

[Exit. 

Quick.  Farewell  to  your  worship. — Truly,  an  honest 
gentleman  ;  but  Anne  loves  him  not ;  for  I  know  Anne's 
mind  as  well  as  another  does  :  Out  upon't !  w7hat  have 
I  forgot  ?  [Exit. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.     Before  PAGE'S  House. 

Enter  MISTRESS  PAGE,  with  a  letter. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  have  I  'scaped  love-letters  in  the 
holy-day  time  of  my  beauty,  and  am  I  now  a  subject  for 
them  ?  Let  me  see  :  [Reads. 

1  She  means,  I  protest.  2  Melancholy. 


SC.  1.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  175 

Ask  me  no  reason  why  I  love  you ;  for  though  love 
use  reason  for  his  precisian,1  he  admits  him  not  for  his 
counsellor :  You  are  not  young,  no  more  am  I;  go  to 
then,  there's  sympathy :  you  are  merry,  so  am  I;  Ha! 
ha!  then  there's  more  sympathy:  you  love  sack,  and 
so  do  I;  would  you  desire  better  sympathy?  Let  it 
suffice  thee,  mistress  Page,  (at  the  least,  if  the  love  of  a 
soldier  can  suffice,)  that  I  love  thee.  I  will  not  say,  pity 
me ;  ''tis  not  a  soldier-like  phrase ;  but  I  say,  love  me. 
By  me, 

Thine  own  true  knight, 

By  day  or  night, 

Or  any  kind  of  light, 

With  all  his  might 

For  thee  tofght, 

John  Falstaff. 

What  a  Herod  of  Jewry  is  this ! — O  wicked,  wicked 
world  ! — one  that  is  well  nigh  worn  to  pieces  with  age, 
to  show  himself  a  young  gallant !  What  an  unweighed 
behavior  hath  this  Flemish  drunkard  picked  (with  the 
devil's  name)  out  of  my  conversation,  that  he  dares  in 
this  manner  assay  me  ?  Why,  he  hath  not  been  thrice 
in  my  company  ! — What  should  I  say  to  him  ? — I  was 
then  frugal  of  my  mirth  : — heaven  forgive  me  ! — Why, 
I'll  exhibit  a  bill  in  the  parliament  for  the  putting 
down  of  fat  men.  How  shall  I  be  revenged  on  him  ? 
for  revenged  I  will  be,  as  sure  as  his  guts  are  made  of 
puddings. 

Enter  MISTRESS  FORD. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page !  trust  me,  I  was  going 
to  your  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  And,  trust  me,  I  was  coming  to  you. 
You  look  very  ill. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  that ;  I  have  to 
show  to  the  contrary. 

1  The  meaning  of  this  passage  is  at  present  obscure.  Dr.  Johnson  con 
jectured,  with  much  probability,  that  Shakspeare  wrote  Physician,  which 
would  render  the  sense  obvious. 


173  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  II. 

Enter  FORD,  PISTOL,  PAGE,  and  NYM. 

Ford.    Well,  I  hope  it  be  not  so. 

Pist.  Hope  is  a  curtail l  dog  in  some  affairs :  Sir 
John  affects  thy  wife. 

Ford.    Why,  sir,  my  wife  is  not  young. 

Pist.    He  wooes  both  high  and  low,  both  rich  and 

poor, 

Both  young  and  old,  one  with  another,  Ford: 
He  loves  the  gally-mawfry ; 2  Ford,  perpend.3 

Ford.    Love  my  wife  ? 

Pist.  With  liver  burning  hot  :4  Prevent,  or  go  thou, 
Like  Sir  Action  he,  with  Ring-wTood  at  thy  heels: 
O,  odious  is  the  name  ! 

Ford.    What  name,  sir  ? 

Pist.    The  horn,  I  say :  Farewell. 
Take   heed ;  have  open   eye ;  for  thieves  do  foot  by 

night  : 
Take  heed,   ere   summer  comes,   or   cuckoo-birds  do 


smg.- 


Away,  Sir  corporal  Nym. 

Believe  it,  Page  ;  he  speaks  sense.  [Exit  PISTOL. 

Ford.    I  will  be  patient ;  I  will  find  out  this. 

Nym.  And  this  is  true.  [To  PAGE.]  I  like  not 
the  humor  of  lying.  He  hath  wronged  me  in  some 
humors ;  I  should  have  borne  the  humored  letter  to 
her :  but  I  have  a  sword,  and  it  shall  bite  upon  my 
necessity.  He  loves  your  wife  ;  there's  the  short  and 
the  long.  My  name  is  corporal  Nym ;  I  speak,  and  I 
avouch.  'Tis  true  : — my  name  is  Nym,  and  Falstaff 
loves  your  wife. — Adieu  !  I  love  not  the  humor  of  bread 
and  cheese  ;  and  there's  the  humor  of  it.  Adieu. 

[Exit  NYM. 

1  A  curtail  dog  was  a  common  dog  not  meant  for  sport,  part  of  the  tails 
of  such  dogs  being  commonly  cut  off  while  they  are  puppies ;  it  was  a 
prevalent  notion  that  the  tail  of  a  dog  was  necessary  to  him  in  runnipg ; 
hence  a  dog  that  missed  his  game  was  called  a  curtail,  from  which  cur 
is  probably  derived. 

2  A  medley. 

3  Consider. 

4  The  liver  was  anciently  supposed  to  be  the  inspirer  of  amorous  pas 
sions. 


SC.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  179 

Page.    The  humor  of  it,  quoth'a !    here's  a  fellow 
frights  humor  out  of  his  wits. 
Ford.    I  will  seek  out  Falstaff. 
Page.    I   never   heard   such   a   drawling,    affecting 


rogue. 


Ford.    If  I  do  find  it,  well. 

Page.  I  will  not  believe  such  a  Catalan,1  though 
the  priest  of  the  town  commended  him  for  a  true  man. 

Ford.    'Twas  a  good,  sensible  fellow  :  Well.2 

Page.    How  now,  Meg  ? 

Mrs.  Page.   Whither  go  you,  George  ? — Hark  you. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  sweet  Frank  ?  why  art  thou 
melancholy  ? 

Ford.  I  melancholy!  I  am  not  melancholy. — Get 
you  home,  go. 

Mrs.  Ford.  'Faith,  thou  hast  some  crotchets  in  thy 
head  now. — Will  you  go,  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Have  with  you. — You'll  come  to  din 
ner,  George  ? — Look,  who  comes  yonder :  she  shall  be 
our  messenger  to  this  paltry  knight. 

[Aside  to  MRS.  FORD. 

Enter  MISTRESS  QUICKLY. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Trust  me,  I  thought  on  her :  she'll 
fit  it. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  are  come  to  see  my  daughter 
Anne  ? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth :  And,  I  pray,  how  does  good 
mistress  Anne  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Go  in  with  us,  and  see ;  we  have  an 
hour's  talk  with  you. 

[Exeunt  MRS.  PAGE,  MRS.  FORD,  and 
MRS.  QUICKLY. 

Page.    How  now,  master  Ford  ? 

1  i.  e.  a  Chinese ;  Cataia,  Cathay,  being  the  name  given  to  China  by 
the  old  travellers,  some  of  whom  have  mentioned  the  dextrous  thieving 
of  the  people  there :  hence  a  sharper  or  thief  was  sometimes  called  a 
Catalan. 

2  This  and  the  two  preceding  speeches  are  soliloquies  of  Ford,  and 
have  no  connection  with  what  Page  says,  who  is  also  making  comments 
on  what  had  passed,  without  attending  to  Ford. 


180  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  II. 

Ford.  You  heard  what  this  knave  told  me ;  did 
you  not  ? 

Page.    Yes  ;  and  you  heard  what  the  other  told  me? 

Ford.    Do  you  think  there  is  truth  in  them  ? 

Page.  Hang  'em,  slaves  !  I  do  not  think  the  knight 
would  offer  it :  but  these  that  accuse  him  in  his  intent 
towards  our  wives,  are  a  yoke  of  his  discarded  men ; 
very  rogues,  now  they  be  out  of  service. 

Ford.    Were  they  his  men  ? 

Page.    Marry,  were  they. 

Ford.  I  like  it  never  the  better  for  that. — Does  he 
lie  at  the  Garter  ? 

Page.  Ay,  marry,  does  he.  If  he  should  intend 
this  voyage  towards  my  wife,  I  would  turn  her  loose 
to  him ;  and  what  he  gets  more  of  her  than  sharp 
words,  let  it  lie  on  my  head. 

Ford.  I  do  not  misdoubt  my  wife ;  but  I  would  be 
loath  to  turn  them  together :  A  man  may  be  too  confi 
dent  :  I  would  have  nothing  lie  on  my  head ;  I  cannot 
be  thus  satisfied. 

Page.  Look,  where  my  ranting  host  of  the  Garter 
comes :  there  is  either  liquor  in  his  pate,  or  money  in 
his  purse,  when  he  looks  so  merrily. — How  now,  mine 
host  ? 

Enter  Host  and  SHALLOW. 

Host.  How  now,  bully-rook  ?  thou'rt  a  gentleman  . 
cavalero-justice,  I  say. 

Shal.  I  follow  mine  host,  I  follow. — Good  even,  and 
twenty,  good  master  Page!  Master  Page,  will  you 
go  with  us  ?  we  have  sport  in  hand. 

Host.  Tell  him,  cavalero-justice;  tell  him,  bully- 
rook. 

Shal.  Sir,  there  is  a  fray  to  be  fought,  between  Sir 
Hugh  the  Welsh  priest,  and  Caius  the  French  doctor. 

Ford.  Good  mine  host  o'  the  Garter,  a  word  with 
you. 

Host.    What  say'st  thou,  bully-rook  ? 

[They  go  aside. 

Shal.    Will  you  [to  PAGE]  go  with  us  to  behold  it  ? 


Su.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  181 

My  merry  host  hath  had  the  measuring  of  their  weap 
ons  ;  and  I  think  he  hath  appointed  them  contrary 
places ;  for,  believe  me,  I  hear  the  parson  is  no  jester. 
Hark,  1  will  tell  you  what  our  sport  shall  be. 

Host.  Hast  thou  no  suit  against  my  knight,  my 
guest-cavalier  ? 

Ford.  None,  I  protest :  but  I'll  give  you  a  pottle  of 
burnt  sack  to  give  me  recourse  to  him,  and  tell  him, 
my  name  is  Brook;  only  for  a  jest. 

Host.  My  hand,  bully :  thou  shalt  have  egress  and 
regress  ;  said  I  well  ?  and  thy  name  shall  be  Brook : 
It  is  a  merry  knight. — Will  you  go,  Cavaliers  ? l 

Shal.    Have  with  you,  mine  host. 

Page.  I  have  heard,  the  Frenchman  hath  good  skill 
in  his  rapier. 

Shal.  Tut,  sir,  I  could  have  told  you  more  :  In  these 
times  you  stand  on  distance,  your  passes,  stoccadoes, 
and  I  know  not  what :  'tis  the  heart,  master  Page : 
'tis  here,  'tis  here.  I  have  seen  the  time,  with  my 
long  sword,2  I  would  have  .made  you  four  tall  fellowrs 
skip  like  rats. 

Host.    Here,  boys,  here,  here  !  shall  we  wrag  ? 

Page.  Have  with  you : — I  had  rather  hear  them 
scold  than  fight.  [Exeunt  Host,  SHAL.  and  PAGE. 

Ford.  Though  Page  be  a  secure  fool,  and  stands  so 
firmly  on  his  wife's  frailty,  yet  I  cannot  put  off  my 
opinion  so  easily.  She  was  in  his  company  at  Page's 
house ;  and,  what  they  made 3  there,  I  know  not. 
Well,  I  will  look  further  into't :  and  I  have  a  disguise 
to  sound  Falstaff :  If  I  find  her  honest,  I  lose  not  my 
labor ;  if  she  be  otherwise,  'tis  labor  well  bestowed. 

[Exit. 

1  The   folio   of   1623  reads   An-Jieires,   which  is  unintelligible :    the 
word  in  the  text,  the  conjecture  of  Mr.  Boaden,  Malone  considered  the 
best  that  had  been  offered.     Cauahircs  would  have  been  the  orthography 
of  the  old  copy,  and  the  host  has  the  term  frequently  in  his  mouth.     Mr. 
Steevens  substituted  on  hearts. 

2  Before  the  introduction  of  rapiers,  the  swords  in  use  were  of  an  enor 
mous  length,  and  sometimes  used  with  both  hands. 

3  An  obsolete  phrase,  signifying — "  what  they  did  there." 


182  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  II 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 


Enter  FAL STAFF  and  PISTOL. 

FaL    I  will  not  lend  thee  a  penny. 

Pist.    Why,  then,  the  world's  mine  oyster, 
Which  I  with  sword  will  open. — 
I  will  retort  the  sum  in  equipage.1 

FaL  Not  a  penny.  I  have  been  content,  sir,  you 
should  lay  my  countenance  to  pawn  :  I  have  grated 
upon  my  good  friends  for  three  reprieves  for  you  and 
your  coach-fellow 2  Nym ;  or  else  you  had  looked 
through  the  grate  like  a  gemini  of  baboons.  I  am 
damned  in  hell,  for  swearing  to  gentlemen  my  friends, 
you  were  good  soldiers,  and  tall  fellows :  and  when 
mistress  Bridget  lost  the  handle  of  her  fan,  I  took't 
upon  mine  honor,  thou  hadst  it  not. 

Pist.  Didst  thou  not  share  ?  hadst  thou  not  fifteen 
pence  ? 

FaL  Reason,  you  rogue,  reason :  think'st  thou,  I'll 
endanger  my  soul  gratis?  At  a  word,  hang  no  more 
about  me  ;  I  am  no  gibbet  for  you : — go. — A  short 
knife  and  a  throng  ; 3 — to  your  manor  of  Pickt-hatch,4 
go. — You'll  not  bear  a  letter  for  me,  you  rogue ! 
you  stand  upon  your  honor ! — Why,  thou  unconfinable 
baseness,  it  is  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  keep  the  terms 
of  my  honor  precise.  I,  I,  I  myself  sometimes,  leaving 
the  fear  of  heaven  on  the  left  hand,  and  hiding  mine 
honor  in  my  necessity,  am  fain  to  shuffle,  to  hedge, 
and  to  lurch ;  and  yet  you,  rogue,  will  ensconce  your 

1  Equipage  appears  to  have  been  a  cant  term,  which  Warburton  con 
jectured  to  mean  stolen  goods.     Mr.  Steevens  thinks  it  means  attendance ; 
i.  e.  "if  you  will  lend  me  the  money,  I  will  pay  you  again  in  attendance," 
but  has  failed  to  produce  an  example  of  the  use  of  the  word  in  that  sense. 

2  i.  e.  he  who  draws  along  with  you,  who  is  joined  with  you  in  all  your 
knavery. 

3  i.  e.  go  and  cut  purses  in  a  crowd. 

4  Picket-hatch  was  in  Turnbull  Street,  Cow  Cross,  Clerkenwell,  a  haunt 
of  the  worst  part  of  both  sexes.     The  unseasonable  and  obstreperous  ir 
ruptions  of  the  swash-bucklers  of  that  age  rendered  a  hatch,  or  half-door 
with  spikes  upon  it,  a  necessary  defence  to  a  brothel. 


SC.  II.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  183 

rags,  your  cat-a-mountain  looks,  your  red-lattice l 
phrases,  and  your  bold-beating  oaths,  under  the  shelter 
of  your  honor  !  You  will  not  do  it,  you  ? 

Pist.    I  do  relent ;  what  would'st  thou  more  of  man  ? 

Enter  ROBIN. 

Rob.    Sir,  here's  a  woman  would  speak  with  you. 
FaL    Let  her  approach. 

Enter  MISTRESS  QUICKLY. 

Quick.    Give  your  worship  good-morrow. 

FaL    Good-morrow,  good  wife. 

Quick.   Not  so,  an't  please  your  worship. 

FaL    Good  maid,  then. 

Quick.  I'll  be  sworn ;  as  my  mother  was,  the  first 
hour  I  was  born. 

FaL    I  do  believe  the  swearer  :  What  with  me  ? 

Quick.  Shall  I  vouchsafe  your  worship  a  word 
or  two  ? 

FaL  Two  thousand,  fair  woman  ;  and  I'll  vouchsafe 
thee  the  hearing. 

Quick.  There  is  one  Mistress  Ford,  sir ; — I  pray, 
come  a  little  nearer  this  ways : — I  myself  dwell  with 
master  doctor  Caius. 

FaL    Well,  on  :  Mistress  Ford,  you  say, 

Quick.  Your  worship  says  very  true  : — I  pray  your 
worship,  come  a  little  nearer  this  ways. 

FaL  I  warrant  thee,  nobody  hears ; — mine  own 
people,  mine  own  people. 

Quick.  Are  they  so  ?  Heaven  bless  them,  and 
make  them  his  servants ! 

FaL    Well :  mistress  Ford  : — what  of  her  ? 

Quick.  Why,  sir,  she's  a  good  creature.  Lord, 
Lord  !  your  worship's  a  wanton  :  Well,  heaven  forgive 
you,  and  all  of  us,  I  pray ! 

FaL   Mistress  Ford  : — come,  mistress  Ford, — 

Quick.    Marry,  this  is  the  short  and  the  long  of  it ; 


1  Alehouse  language.    Red  lattice  windows  formerly  denoted  an  ale 
house. 


1S4  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  II. 

you  have  brought  her  into  such  a  canaries l  as  'tis  won 
derful.  The  best  courtier  of  them  all,  when  the  court 
lay  at  Windsor,  could  never  have  brought  her  to  such  a 
canary.  Yet  there  has  been  knights,  and  lords,  and 
gentlemen,  with  their  coaches ;  I  warrant  you,  coach 
after  coach,  letter  after  letter,  gift  after  gift ;  smelling 
so  sweetly,  (all  musk,)  and  so  rushling,  I  warrant  you, 
in  silk  and  gold ;  and  in  such  alligant  terms ;  and  in 
such  wine  and  sugar  of  the  best,  and  the  fairest,  that 
would  have  won  any  woman's  heart ;  and,  I  warrant 
you,  they  could  never  get  an  eye-wink  of  her. — I  had 
myself  twenty  angels  given  me  this  morning :  but  I 
defy  all  angels,  (in  any  such  sort,  as  they  say,)  but  in 
the  way  of  honesty : — and,  I  warrant  you,  they  could 
never  get  her  so  much  as  sip  on  a  cup  with  the  proud 
est  of  them  all :  and  yet  there  has  been  earls,  nay, 
which  is  more,  pensioners ; 2  but  I  warrant  you,  all  is 
one  with  her. 

Fed.  But  what  says  she  to  me  ?  be  brief,  my  good 
she  Mercury. 

Quick.  Marry,  she  hath  received  your  letter ;  for 
the  which  she  thanks  you  a  thousand  times :  and  she 
gives  you  to  notify,  that  her  husband  will  be  absence 
from  his  house  between  ten  and  eleven. 

Fal.    Ten  and  eleven  ? 

Quick.  Ay,  forsooth ;  and  then  you  may  come  and 
see  the  picture,  she  says,  that  you  wot  of; — master 
Ford,  her  husband,  will  be  from  home.  Alas !  the 
sweet  woman  leads  an  ill  life  with  him ;  he's  a  very 
jealousy  man;  she  leads  a  very  frampold3  life  with 
him,  good  heart. 

Fal.  Ten  and  eleven :  Woman,  commend  me  to 
her  ;  I  will  not  fail  her. 

Quick.  Why,  you  say  well : — But  I  have  another 
messenger  to  your  worship :  Mrs.  Page  hath  her 
hearty  commendations  to  you,  too ; — and  let  me  tell 

1  A  mistake  of  Mrs.  Quickly's  for  quandaries. 

2  i.  e.  gentlemen  of  the  band  of  Pensioners.     Their  dress  was  remark 
ably  splendid. 

3  Frampold  here  menus  fretful,  peevish. 


SC.  II.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  185 

you  in  your  ear,  she's  as  fartuous  a  civil  modest  wife, 
and  one  (I  tell  you)  that  will  not  miss  you  morning 
nor  evening  prayer,  as  any  is  in  Windsor,  whoe'er  be 
the  other :  and  she  bade  me  tell  your  worship,  that  her 
husband  is  seldom  from  home ;  but  she  hopes  there 
will  come  a  time.  I  never  knew  a  woman  so  dote 
upon  a  man  ;  surely,  I  think  you  have  charms,  la ;  yes, 
in  truth. 

FaL  Not  I,  I  assure  thee  ?  setting  the  attraction  of 
my  good  parts  aside,  I  have  no  other  charms. 

Quick.   Blessing  on  your  heart  for't ! 

FaL  But,  I  pray  thee,  tell  me  this  :  has  Ford's  wife, 
and  Page's  wife,  acquainted  each  other  how  they 
love  me  ? 

Quick.  That  were  a  jest,  indeed ! — they  have  not 
so  little  grace,  I  hope : — that  were  a  trick,  indeed ! 
But  mistress  Page  would  desire  you  to  send  her  your 
little  page  of  all  loves;1  her  husband  has  a  marvellous 
infection  to  the  little  page ;  and,  truly,  master  Page  is 
an  honest  man.  Never  a  wife  in  Windsor  leads  a  bet 
ter  life  than  she  does ;  do  what  she  will,  say  what  she 
will,  take  all,  pay  all,  go  to  bed  when  she  list,  rise 
when  she  list,  all  is  as  she  will ;  and,  truly,  she  de 
serves  it :  for  if  there  be  a  kind  woman  in  Windsor, 
she  is  one.  You  must  send  her  your  page  ;  no  remedy. 

FaL   Why,  I  will. 

Quick.  Nay,  but  do  so,  then  :  and,  look  you,  he  may 
come  and  go  between  you  both ;  and,  in  any  case, 
have  a  nay  word,2  that  you  may  know  one  another's 
mind,  and  the  boy  never  need  to  understand  any  thing  ; 
for  'tis  not  good  that  children  should  know  any  wick 
edness  ;  old  folks,  you  know,  have  discretion,  as  they 
say,  and  know  the  world. 

FaL  Fare  thee  well :  commend  me  to  them  both : 
there's  my  purse ;  I  am  yet  thy  debtor. — Boy,  go 
along  with  this  woman. — This  news  distracts  me  ! 

[Exeunt  QUICKLY  and  ROBIN. 

1  Of  all  loves  is  an  adjuration  only,  and  signifies  no  more  than  by  all 
means,  for  the  sake  of  all  love. 

2  Jl  watchword. 

VOL.  I.  24 


186  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WENDSOR.  [ACT  II 

Pist.    This  punk  is  one  of  Cupid's  carriers  : — 
Clap  on  more  sails  ;  pursue  ;  up  with  jour  fights  ; l 
Give  fire ;  she  is  my  prize,  or  ocean  whelm  them  all ! 

[Exit  PISTOL. 

Fal.  Say'st  thou  so,  old  Jack?  go  thy  ways ;  I'll 
make  more  of  thy  old  body  than  I  have  done.  Will 
they  yet  look  after  thee  ?  Wilt  thou,  after  the  expense 
of  so  much  money,  be  now  a  gainer  ?  Good  body,  1 
thank  thee :  Let  them  say,  'tis  grossly  done ;  so  it  be 
fairly  done,  no  matter. 

Enter  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Sir  John,  there's  one  master  Brook  below 
wrould  fain  speak  with  you,  and  be  acquainted  with 
you ;  and  hath  sent  your  worship  a  morning's  draught 
of  sack. 

Fal.    Brook  is  his  name  ? 

Bard.    Ay,  sir. 

Fal.  Call  him  in.  [Exit  BARDOLPH.]  Such  Brooks 
are  welcome  to  me,  that  o'erflow  such  liquor.  Ah ! 
ha !  mistress  Ford  and  mistress  Page,  have  I  encom 
passed  you  ?  go  to ;  via ! 2 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH  with  FORD  disguised. 

Ford.    Bless  you,  sir. 

Fal.    And  you,  sir  :  Would  you  speak  with  me  ? 

For d.  I  make  bold  to  press  with  so  little  preparation 
upon  you. 

Fal.  You're  welcome  :  What's  your  will  ?  Give  us 
leave,  drawer.  [Exit  BARDOLPH. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  am  a  gentleman  that  have  spent  much ; 
my  name  is  Brook. 

Fal.  Good  master  Brook,  I  desire  more  acquaint 
ance  of  you. 

For  d.    Good  Sir  John,  I  sue  for  yours  :  not  to  charge 


1  Fights  are  the  waist  cloths  which  hang  round  about  the  ship  to  hinder 
men  from  being  seen  in  fight ;  or  any  place  wherein  men  may  cover  them 
selves,  and  yet  use  their  anns. — Phillips's  World  of  Words. 

2  An  Italian  word,  which  Florio  explains — "  an  adverb  of  encourage 
ment,  on  away,  go  to,  away  forward,  go  on,  despatch/' 


SC.  II.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  187 

you ;  for  I  mast  let  you  understand,  I  think  myself  in 
better  plight  for  a  lender  than  you  are :  the  which 
hath  something  imboldened  me  to  this  unseasoned  in 
trusion  ;  for  they  say,  if  money  go  before,  all  ways  do 
lie  open. 

Fed.    Money  is  a  good  soldier,  sir,  and  will  on. 

Ford.  Troth,  and  I  have  a  bag  of  money  here 
troubles  me  :  if  you  will  help  me  to  bear  it,  Sir  John, 
take  all,  or  half,  for  easing  me  of  the  carriage. 

Fal.  Sir,  I  know  not  how  I  may  deserve  to  be  your 
porter. 

Ford.  I  will  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  the 
hearing. 

Fal.  Speak,  good  master  Brook ;  I  shall  be  glad  to 
be  your  servant. 

Ford.  Sir,  I  hear  you  are  a  scholar, — I  will  be  brief 

with  you  ; and  you  have  been  a  man  long  known 

to  me,  though  I  had  never  so  good  means,  as  desire,  to 
make  myself  acquainted  with  you.  I  shall  discover  a 
thing  to  you,  wrherein  I  must  very  much  lay  open  mine 
own  imperfection :  but,  good  Sir  John,  as  you  have 
one  eye  upon  my  follies,  as  you  hear  them  unfolded, 
turn  another  into  the  register  of  your  own  ;  that  I  may 
pass  with  a  reproof  the  easier,  sith l  you  yourself  know 
how  easy  it  is  to  be  such  an  offender. 

Fal.    Very  well,  sir ;  proceed. 

Ford.  There  is  a  gentlewoman  in  this  town,  her 
husband's  name  is  Ford. 

Fal.   Well,  sir. 

Ford.  I  have  long  loved  her,  and,  1  protest  to  you, 
bestowed  much  on  her  ;  followed  her  with  a  doting 
observance ;  engrossed  opportunities  to  meet  her ; 
feed  every  slight  occasion,  that  could  but  niggardly 
give  me  sight  of  her ;  not  only  bought  many  presents 
to  give  her,  but  have  given  largely  to  many,  to  know 
what  she  would  have  given :  briefly,  I  have  pursued 
her,  as  love  hath  pursued  me ;  which  hath  been  on  the 
wing  of  all  occasions.  But,  whatsoever  I  have  merited, 

1  Since. 


188  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  II 

either  in  my  mind  or  in  my  means,  meed,  I  am  sure,  I 
have  received  none  ;  unless  experience  be  a  jewel : 
that  I  have  purchased  at  an  infinite  rate  ;  and  that  hath 
taught  me  to  say  this : 

Love  like  a  shadow  flies,  when  substance  love  pursues: 
Pursuing  thai  that  flies,  and  flying  what  pursues. 

Fal.  Have  you  received  no  promise  of  satisfaction 
at  her  hands  ? 

Ford.    Never. 

Fed.    Have  you  importuned  her  to  such  a  purpose  ? 

Ford.    Never. 

Fal.    Of  what  quality  was  your  love,  then  ? 

Ford.  Like  a  fair  house,  built  upon  another  man's 
ground,  so  that  I  have  lost  my  edifice,  by  mistaking 
the  place  where  I  erected  it. 

Fal.  To  what  purpose  have  you  unfolded  this 
to  me  ? 

Ford.  When  I  have  told  you  that,  I  have  told  you 
all.  Some  say,  that  though  she  appear  honest  to  me, 
yet,  in  other  places,  she  enlargeth  her  mirth  so  far, 
that  there  is  shrewd  construction  made  of  her.  Now, 
Sir  John,  here  is  the  heart  of  my  purpose  :  You  are  a 
gentleman  of  excellent  breeding,  admirable  discourse, 
of  great  admittance,1  authentic  in  your  place  and  per 
son,  generally  allowed Q  for  your  many  warlike,  court- 
like,  and  learned  preparations. 

Fal.    O,  sir ! 

Ford.  Believe  it,  for  you  know  it : — There  is 
money ;  spend  it,  spend  it,  spend  more  ;  spend  all  [ 
have  ;  only  give  me  so  much  of  your  time  in  exchange 
of  it,  as  to  lay  an  amiable  siege  to  the  honesty  of  this 
Ford's  wife  :  use  your  art  of  wooing,  win  her  consent 
to  you ;  if  any  man  may,  you  may  as  soon  as  any. 

Fal.  Would  it  apply  well  to  the  vehemency  of  your 
affection,  that  I  should  win  what  you  would  enjoy  ? 
Methinks  you  prescribe  to  yourself  very  preposterously. 


1  i.  e.  admitted  into  all  or  the  greatest  companies. 

2  Allowed  is  approved. 


SC.  II.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  189 

Ford.  O,  understand  my  drift !  she  dwells  so  se 
curely  on  the  excellency  of  her  honor,  that  the  folly  of 
my  soul  dares  not  present  itself;  she  is  too  bright  to 
be  looked  against.  Now,  could  I  come  to  her  with 
any  detection  in  my  hand,  my  desires  had  instance 
and  argument  to  commend  themselves ;  I  could  drive 
her  then  from  the  ward  of  her  purity,  her  reputation, 
her  marriage-vow,  and  a  thousand  other  her  defences, 
which  now  are  too  strongly  embattled  against  me  : 
What  say  you  to't,  Sir  John  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  first  make  bold  with  your 
money ;  next,  give  me  your  hand ;  and  last,  as  I  am  a 
gentleman,  you  shall,  if  you  will,  enjoy  Ford's  wife. 

Ford.    O  good  sir  ! 

Fal.    Master  Brook,  I  say  you  shall. 

Ford.  Want  no  money,  Sir  John ;  you  shall  want 
none. 

Fal.  Want  no  mistress  Ford,  Master  Brook ;  you 
shall  want  none.  I  shall  be  with  her,  (I  may  tell  you,) 
by  her  own  appointment ;  even  as  you  came  in  to  me, 
her  assistant,  or  go-between,  parted  from  me  :  I  say, 
I  shall  be  with  her  between  ten  and  eleven ;  for  at 
that  time  the  jealous  rascally  knave,  her  husband,  will 
be  forth.  Come  you  to  me  at  night ;  you  shall  know 
how  I  speed. 

Ford.  1  am  blest  in  your  acquaintance.  Do  you 
know  Ford,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Hang  him,  poor  cuckoldly  knave  !  I  know  him 
not : — yet  I  wrong  him  to  call  him  poor ;  they  say,  the 
jealous  wittolly  knave  hath  masses  of  money;  for  the 
which  his  wife  seems  to  me  well-favored.  I  will  use 
her  as  the  key  of  the  cuckoldly  rogue's  coffer :  and 
there's  my  harvest-home. 

Ford.  I  would  you  knew  Ford,  sir  ;  that  you  might 
avoid  him,  if  you  sa\v  him. 

Fal.  Hang  him,  mechanical  salt-butter  rogue !  I 
will  stare  him  out  of  his  wits ;  I  will  awe  him  with  my 
cudgel ;  it  shall  hang  like  a  meteor  o'er  the  cuckold's 

o          '  O 

horns :  master  Brook,  thou  shalt  know,  I  will  predom 
inate  o'er  the  peasant,  and  thou  shalt  lie  with  his  wife. 


190  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  II 

— Come  to  me  soon  at  night : — Ford's  a  knave,  and  I 
will  aggravate  his  stile ; 1  thou,  master  Brook,  shalt 
know  him  for  a  knave  and  cuckold : — come  to  me  soon 
at  night.  [Exit. 

Ford.  What  a  damned  Epicurean  rascal  is  this ! — 
My  heart  is  ready  to  crack  with  impatience. — Who 
says  this  is  improvident  jealousy  ? — My  wife  hath  sent 
to  him,  the  hour  is  fixed,  the  match  is  made.  Would 
any  man  have  thought  this  ? — See  the  hell  of  having  a 
false  woman  !  my  bed  shall  be  abused,  iny  coffers  ran 
sacked,  my  reputation  gnawn  at ;  and  1  shall  not  only 
receive  this  villanous  wrong,  but  stand  under  the  adop 
tion  of  abominable  terms,  and  by  him  that  does  me  this 

wrong.     Terms  !    names  ! Amaimon   sounds  well : 

Lucifer,  wrell ;  Barbason,2  well ;  yet  they  are  devils' 
additions,  the  names  of  fiends :  but  cuckold !  wittol 3 
cuckold !  the  devil  himself  hath  not  such  a  name. 
Page  is  an  ass,  a  secure  ass ;  he  will  trust  his  wife, 
he  will  not  be  jealous :  I  will  rather  trust  a  Fleming 
with  my  butter,  parson  Hugh  the  Welshman  with  my 
cheese,  an  Irishman  with  my  aqua-vita?  bottle,  or  a 
thief  to  walk  my  ambling  gelding,  than  my  wife  with 
herself;  then  she  plots,  then  she  ruminates,  then  she 
devises :  and  what  they  think  in  their  hearts  they  may 
effect,  they  will  break  their  hearts  but  they  will  effect. 
Heaven  be  praised  for  my  jealousy ! — Eleven  o'clock 
the  hour — I  will  prevent  this,  detect  my  wife,  be  re 
venged  on  Falstaff,  and  laugh  at  Page.  I  will  about 
it ;  better  three  hours  too  soon,  than  a  minute  too  late. 
Fie,  fie,  fie  !  cuckold  !  cuckold  !  cuckold  !  [Exit. 

1  This  is  a  phrase  from  the  Herald's  Office.     Falstaff  means  that  he 
will  add  more  titles  to  those  Ford  is  already  distinguished  by. 

2  Reginald  Scot,  in  his  Discovery  of  Witchcraft,  may  be  consulted  con 
cerning  these  demons.     " Amaimon"  he  says,  "was  King  of  the   East, 
and  Barbalos  a  great  coimtie  or  earle."      But  Handle  Holme,    in    his 
Academy  of  Armory,  informs  us  that  "Jlmaymon  is  the  chief  whose  do 
minion  is  on  the  north  part  of  the  infernal  gulf;  and  that  Barbatos  is 
like  a  Sagittarius,  and  has  thirty  legions  under  him.*' 

3  A  tame,  contented  cuckold,  knowing  himself  to  be  one ;   from   the 
Saxon  wittan,  to  know. 


SC.  III.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  191 


SCENE  III.     Windsor  Park. 


Enter  CAIUS  and  RUGBY. 

Cams.   Jack  Rugby. 

Rug.    Sir. 

Caius.    Vat  is  de  clock,  Jack  ? 

Rug.  'Tis  past  the  hour,  sir,  that  Sir  Hugh  promised 
to  meet. 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  has  save  his  soul,  dat  he  is  no 
come :  he  has  pray  his  Pible  veil,  dat  he  is  no  come : 
by  gar,  Jack  Rugby,  he  is  dead  already,  if  he  be 
come. 

Rug.  He  is  wise,  sir ;  he  knew  your  worship  would 
kill  him,  if  he  came. 

Caius.  By  gar,  de  herring  is  no  dead,  so  as  I  vill 
kill  him.  Take  your  rapier,  Jack  ;  I  vill  tell  you  how 
I  vill  kill  him. 

Rug.    Alas,  sir,  I  cannot  fence. 

Caius.    Villany,  take  your  rapier. 

Rug.    Forbear  ;  here's  company. 

Enter  Host,  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and  PAGE. 

Host.    'Bless  thee,  bully  doctor. 

Shal.    Save  you,  master  doctor  Caius. 

Page.    Now,  good  master  doctor  ! 

Slen.    Give  you  good-morrow,  sir. 

Caius.  Vat  be  all  you,  one,  two,  tree,  four,  come 
for  ? 

Host.  To  see  thee  fight,  to  see  thee  foin,1  to  see 
thee  traverse,  to  see  thee  here,  to  see  thee  there  ;  to 
see  thee  pass  thy  pun  to,  thy  stock,  thy  reverse,  thy  dis 
tance,  thy  montant.2  Is  he  dead,  my  Ethiopian  ?  is 
he  dead,  my  Francisco  ?  ha,  bully !  What  says  my 

1  The  ancient  term  for  making  a  thrust  in  fencing. 

2  Terms  in  fencing. 


192  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  II. 

/Esculapius  ?  my  Galen  ?  my  heart  of  elder  ? 1  ha  !  is 
he  dead,  bully  Stale  ?  2  is  he  dead  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  he  is  de  coward  Jack  priest  of  the 
vorld ;  he  is  not  show  his  face. 

Host.  Thou  art  a  Castilian,  king-urinal !  Hector  of 
Greece,  my  boy ! 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  bear  vitness  that  me  have  stay 
six  or  seven,  tw7o,  tree  hours  for  him,  and  he  is  no 
come. 

Shal.  He  is  the  wiser  man,  master  doctor:  he  is  a 
curer  of  souls,  and  you  a  curer  of  bodies  ;  if  you  should 
light,  you  go  against  the  hair  of  your  professions :  is  it 
not  true,  master  Page? 

Page.  Master  Shallow,  you  have  yourself  been  a 
great  fighter,  though  now  a  man  of  peace. 

Shal.  Bodykins,  master  Page,  though  I  now  be  old, 
and  of  the  peace,  if  I  see  a  sword  out,  my  finger 
itches  to  make  one :  though  we  are  justices,  and  doc 
tors,  and  churchmen,  master  Page,  we  have  some  salt 
of  our  youth  in  us ;  we  are  the  sons  of  women,  master 
Page. 

Page.    'Tis  true,  master  Shallow. 

S/iaL  It  will  be  found  so,  master  Page.  Master 
doctor  Caius,  I  am  come  to  fetch  you  home.  I  am 
sworn  of  the  peace ;  you  have  showed  yourself  a  wise 
physician,  and  Sir  Hugh  hath  shown  himself  a  wise 
and  patient  churchman :  you  must  go  with  me,  master 
doctor. 

Host.  Pardon,  guest  justice : — A  word,  monsieur 
Muck-water. 

Caius.    Muck-vater  ;  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.  Muck-water,  in  our  English  tongue,  is  valor, 
bully. 


1  Heart  of  elder.     The  joke  is,  that  elder  has  a  heart  of  pith. 

2  Bully-stale  and  king-urinal.     These  epithets  will  be  sufficiently  ob 
vious  to  those  who  recollect  the  prevalence  of  empirical  water- doctors. 
Castilian,  a  cant  word,  (like  Catalan  and  Ethiopian,)  appears  to  have  been 
generally  used  as  a  term  of  reproach  after  the  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Ar 
mada.     The  Host  avails  himself  of  the  poor  doctors  ignorance  of  English 
phraseology  in  applying  to  him  these  high-sounding  opprobrious  epithets : 
he  here  means  to  call  him  coward. 


SC.  III.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  193 

Cains.  By  gar,  then  I  have  as  much  muck-vater  as 
de  Englishman  : — Scurvy  jack-dog  priest ;  by  gar,  me 
vil  cut  his  ears. 

Host.    He  will  clapper-claw  thee  tightly,  bully. 

Caius.    Clapper-de-claw  !  vat  is  dat  ? 

Host.    That  is,  he  will  make  thee  amends 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  do  look,  he  shall  clapper-de- 
claw  me  ;  for,  by  gar,  me  vill  have  it. 

Host.    And  I  will  provoke  him  to't,  or  let  him  wag. 

Caius.    Me  tank  you  for  dat. 

Host.  And  moreover,  bully, But  first,  master 

guest,  and  master  Page,  and  eke  cavalero  Slender,  go 
you  through  the  town  to  Frogmore.  [Aside  to  them. 

Page.    Sir  Hugh  is  there,  is  he?. 

Host.  He  is  there  :  see  what  humor  he  is  in  ;  and  i 
will  bring  the  doctor  about  by  the  fields:  will  it  do 
well  ? 

Slid.    We  will  do  it. 

Page,  Slid,  and  Slen.  Adieu,  good  master  doctor. 
[Exeunt  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  vill  kill  de  priest ;  for  he  speak 
for  a  jack-an-ape  to  Anne  Page. 

Host.  Let  him  die :  but,  first,  sheath  thy  impa 
tience  ;  throw  cold  water  on  thy  cholcr :  go  about  the 
fields  with  me  through  Frogmore  ;  I  will  bring  thee 
where  Mrs.  Anne  Page  is,  at  a  farmhouse  a  feasting  ; 
and  thou  shalt  woo  her  :  Cry'd  game,1  said  I  W7ell  ? 

Caius.  By  gar,  me  tank  you  for  dat :  by  gar,  I  love 
you ;  and  I  shall  procure-a  you  de  good  guest,  de  earl, 
de  knight,  de  lords,  de  gentlemen,  my  patients. 

Host.  For  the  which,  I  will  be  thy  adversary  towards 
Anne  Page  ;  said  I  well  ? 

Caius.    By  gar,  ?tis  good ;  veil  said. 

Host.    Let  us  wag  then. 

Cains.    Come  at  my  heels,  Jack  Rugby.      [Exeunt 

i  Warburton  conjectures  that  we  should  read  Cry  Aim,  that  is,  "  En 
courage  me  ;  do  I  not  deserve  it?" — Perhaps  the  words  in  the  text  were 
applied  to  Caius  as  the  game  after  which  the  waggish  Host  is  in  full  cry. 
VOL.  i.  25 


194  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  III 


ACT  III. 


SCENE  1.      A  Field  near  Frogmore. 


Enter  SIR  HUGH  EVANS  and  SIMPLE. 

Era.  I  pray  you  now,  good  master  Slender's  serv 
ing-man,  and  friend  Simple  by  your  name,  which  way 
Inve  von  looked  for  master  Cains,  that  calls  himself 
Doctor  of  Phi/sic  ? 

Si  /n.  Marry,  sir,  the  pittie-ward,1  the  park-ward, 
every  way  ;  old  Windsor  way,  and  every  way  but  the 
town  way. 

Ecu.  1  most  fehemently  desire  you,  you  will  also 
look  that  way. 

Sim.    1  will,  sir. 

Eva.  'Pless  my  soul  !  how  full  of  cholers  I  am,  and 
trempling  of  mind  !  —  I  shall  be  glad,  if  he  have  deceived 
me  :  —  how  melancholies  I  am  !  —  I  will  knog  his  urinals 
about  his  knave's  costard,2  when  I  have  good  oppor 
tunities  for  the  'ork:  —  'pless  my  soul!  [Sings. 


To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls21 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals  ; 
Tli  ere  will  we  make  our  peds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies. 
To  shallow  - 

'Mercy  on  me  !   I  have  a  great  dispositions  to  cry. 

1  Recent  editors  read  city-ward.  See  note  on  this  word  in  Malone  and 
Boswell's  edition. 

*-  Head. 

3  Tins  is  a  part  of  a  beautiful  little  pastoral,  printed  among  Shak- 
speare's  Sonnets  in  1595);  but,  in  England's  Helicon,  1(500,  it  is  attributed 
to  Christopher  Marlowe,  and  to  it  is  subjoined  an  answer,  called  "The 
Nymph's  Reply,"  signed  /«TIO/O,  which  is  thought  to  be  the  signature  of 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh.  Sir  Hugh  misrecites  the  lines  in  his  panic.  The 
reader  will  be  pleased  to  find  them  at  the  end  of  the  play. 


SC.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  195 

Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals ; — 
Wlien  as  I  sat  in  Pabylon* — 
And  a  thousand  vagram  posies. 
To  shallow 

Sim.    Yonder  he  is  coming  this  way,  Sir  Hugh. 
Eva.    He's  welcome : 

To  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 

Heaven  prosper  the  right ! — What  weapons  is  he  ? 

Sim.  No  weapons,  sir :  There  comes  my  master, 
master  Shallow,  and  another  gentleman  from  Frogmore, 
over  the  stile,  this  way. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  give  me  my  gown ;  or  else  keep  it 
in  your  arms. 

Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 

ShaL  How  now,  master  parson  ?  Good  morrow, 
good  Sir  Hugh.  Keep  a  gamester  from  the  dice,  and 
a  good  student  from  his  book,  and  it  is  wonderful. 

Slen.    Ah,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Page.    Save  you,  good  Sir  Hugh ! 

Eva.    'Pless  you  from  his  mercy  sake,  all  of  you  ! 

ShaL  What !  the  sword  and  the  word !  do  you 
study  them  both,  master  parson  ? 

Page.  And  youthful  still,  in  your  doublet  and  hose, 
this  raw  rheumatic  day  ? 

Eva.    There  is  reasons  and  causes  for  it. 

Page.  We  are  come  to  you,  to  do  a  good  office, 
master  parson. 

Eva.    Fery  well :  What  is  it  ? 

Page.  Yonder  is  a  most  reverend  gentleman,  who, 
be  like,  having  received  wrong  by  some  person,  is  at 

i  This  line  is  from  the  old  version  of  the  137th  Psalm : 

"  When  we  did  sit  in  Babylon, 

The  rivers  round  about, 
Then  the  remembrance  of  Sion 
The  tears  for  grief  burst  out." 

The  word  rivers  in  the  second  line  was  probably  brought  to  Sir  Hugh's 
thoughts  by  the  line  of  the  madrigal  he  had  just  repeated ;  and  in  his 
fright  he  blends  the  sacred  and  profane  songs  together. 


196  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  III. 

most  odds  with  his  own  gravity  and  patience,  that  ever 
you  saw. 

Shal.  I  have  lived  fourscore  years  and  upward ;  I 
never  heard  a  man  of  his  place,  gravity,  and  learning, 
so  wide  of  his  own  respect. 

Eva.    What  is  he  ? 

Page.  I  think  you  know  him  ;  master  doctor  Cains, 
the  renowned  French  physician. 

Eva.  Got's  will,  and  his  passion  of  my  heart !  1 
had  as  lief  you  would  tell  me  of  a  mess  of  porridge. 

Page.   Why? 

Eva.  He  has  no  more  knowledge  in  Hibocrates  and 
Galen, — and  he  is  a  knave  besides  ;  a  cowardly  knave, 
as  you  would  desires  to  be  acquainted  withal. 

Page.  I  warrant  you,  he's  the  man  should  fight 
with  him. 

Slen.    O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

Shal.  It  appears  so,  by  his  weapons : — Keep  them 
asunder ;  here  comes  doctor  Caius. 

Enter  Host,  CAIUS,  and  RUGBY. 

Page.  Nay,  good  master  parson,  keep  in  your 
weapon. 

Shal.    So  do  you,  good  master  doctor. 

Host.  Disarm  them,  and  let  them  question ;  let 
them  keep  their  limbs  whole,  and  hack  our  English. 

Caius.  I  pray  you,  let -a  me  speak  a  word  vit  your 
ear  :  Verefore  vill  }^ou  not  meet  a-me  ? 

Eva.    Pray  you,  use  your  patience  :  In  good  time. 

Caius.  By  gar,  you  are  de  coward,  de  Jack  dog, 
John  ape. 

Eva.  Pray  you,  let  us  not  be  laughing-stogs  to  other 
men's  humors ;  I  desire  you  in  friendship,  and  I  will 
one  way  or  other  make  you  amends : — I  will  knog 
your  urinals  about  your  knave's  cogscomb,  for  missing 
your  meetings  and  appointments. 

Caius.  Diable  ! — Jack  Rugby, — mine  Host  de  Jar- 
terre, — have  I  not  stay  for  him,  to  kill  him?  have  1  not, 
at  de  place  I  did  appoint  ? 

Eva.    As  I  am  a  Christians  soul,  now,  look  you,  this 


SC.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  191 

is  the  place  appointed ;  I'll  be  judgment  by  mine  host 
of  the  Garter. 

Host.  Peace,  I  say,  Guallia  and  Gaul,  French  and 
Welsh,  soul-curer  and  body-curer. 

Cams.    Ay,  dat  is  very  good  !  excellent ! 

Host.  Peace,  I  say ;  hear  mine  host  of  the  Garter. 
Am  I  politic  ?  am  I  subtle  ?  am  I  a  Machiavel  ?  Shall 
I  lose  my  doctor  ?  no ;  he  gives  me  the  potions,  and 
the  motions.  Shall  I  lose  my  parson,  my  priest,  my 
Sir  Hugh  ?  no ;  he  gives  me  the  proverbs  and  the  no- 
verbs. — Give  me  thy  hand,  terrestrial ;  so  : — Give  me 
thy  hand,  celestial ;  so. Boys  of  art,  I  have  de 
ceived  you  both  ;  I  have  directed  you  to  wrong  places  : 
your  hearts  are  mighty,  your  skins  are  whole,  and  let 
burnt  sack  be  the  issue. — Come,  lay  their  swords  to 
pawn : — Follow  me,  lad  of  peace ;  follow,  follow, 
follow. 

ShaL  Trust  me,  a  mad  host : — Follow,  gentlemen, 
follow. 

Slen.    O,  sweet  Anne  Page  ! 

[Exeunt  SHAL.  SLEN.  PAGE,  and  Host. 

Cains.  Ha !  do  I  perceive  dat  ?  have  you  make-a 
de  sot J  of  us  ?  ha,  ha ! 

Eva.  This  is  well ;  he  has  made  us  his  vlouting- 
stog.2 — I  desire  you,  that  we  may  be  friends ;  and  let 
us  knog  our  prains  together,  to  be  revenge  on  this 
same  scall,3  scurvy,  cogging  companion,  the  host  of  the 
Garter. 

Cains.  By  gar,  vit  all  my  heart ;  he  promise  to 
bring  me  vere  is  Anne  Page :  by  gar,  he  deceive 
me  too. 

Eva.  Well,  I  will  smite  his  noddles : — Pray  you, 
follow.  [Exeunt. 

1  Fool. 

2  Flouting-stock. 

3  i.  e.  scalled  head,  a  term  of  reproach.     Chaucer  imprecates  on  the 
scrivener  who  miswrites  his  verse — • 

"  Under  thy  long  locks  mayest  thou  have  the  scatte." 


193  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  III. 


SCENE  II.     The  Street  in  Windsor. 

Enter  MISTRESS  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  keep  your  way,  little  gallant ;  you 
were  wont  to  be  a  follower,  but  now  you  are  a  leader : 
Whether  had  you  rather  lead  mine  eyes,  or  eye  your 
master's  heels  ? 

Rob.  I  had  rather,  forsooth,  go  before  you  like  a 
man,  than  follow  him  like  a  dwarf. 

Mrs.  Page.  O,  you  are  a  flattering  boy ;  now,  I  see 
you'll  be  a  courtier. 

Enter  FORD. 

Ford.    Well  met,  mistress  Page  :  Whither  go  you  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  sir,  to  see  your  wife  :  Is  she 
at  home  ? 

Ford.  Ay ;  and  as  idle  as  she  may  hang  together, 
for  want  of  company :  I  think,  if  your  husbands  were 
dead,  you  two  w^ould  marry. 

Mrs.  Page.    Be  sure  of  that, — two  other  husbands. 

Ford.    Where  had  you  this  pretty  weather-cock  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  I  cannot  tell  what  the  dickens  his  name 
is  my  husband  had  him  of:  What  do  you  call  your 
knight's  name,  sirrah  ? 

Rob.    Sir  John  Falstaff. 

Ford.    Sir  John  Falstaff! 

^  Mrs.  Page.    He,   he;   I   can   never  hit  on's  name. 
There  is  such  a  league  between  my  good  man  and  he  ! 
-Is  your  wife  at  home,  indeed  ? 

Ford.    Indeed  she  is. 

Mrs.  Page.  By  your  leave,  sir  ;— I  am  sick,  till  I 
see  her.  [Exeunt  MRS.  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 

Ford.  Has  Page  any  brains?  hath  he  any  eyes? 
hath  he  any  thinking  ?  Sure,  they  sleep  ;  he  hath  no 
use  of  them.  Why,  this  boy  will  carry  a  letter  twenty 
miles,  as  easy  as  a  cannon  will  shoot  point  blank  twelve 
score.  He  pieces-out  his  wife's  inclination  ;  he  gives 
her  folly  motion  and  advantage  :  and  now  she's  going 


SC.  II.]  MERRY    WIVES    OF   WINDSOR.  199 

to  my  wife,  and  FalstafPs  boy  with  her.  A  man  may 
he  T  this  shower  sing  in  the  wind  ! — and  Falstaff's  boy 
witli  her! — Good  plots  ! — they  are  laid;  and  our  re 
volted  wives  share  damnation  together.  Well ;  I  will 
take  him  ;  then  torture  my  wife,  pluck  the  borrowed 
veil  of  modesty  from  the  so-seeming1  mistress  Page, 
divulge  Page  himself  for  a  secure  and  wilful  Actaeon  ; 
and  to  these  violent  proceedings  all  my  neighbors  shall 
cry  aim.  [Clock  strikes.]  The  clock  gives  me  my 
cue,  and  my  assurance  bids  me  search  ;  there  I  shall 
find  Falstaff :  I  shall  be  rather  praised  for  this,  than 
mocked  ;  for  it  is  as  positive  as  the  earth  is  firm,  that 
Falstaff  is  there  :  1  will  go. 

Enter  PAGE,    SHALLOW,  SLENDER,    Host,  SIR  HUGH 
EVANS,  CAIUS,  and  RUGBY. 

ShaL  Pave,  &c.    Well  met,  master  Ford. 

Ford.  Trust  me,  a  good  knot :  I  have  good  cheer  at 
home  ;  and,  I  pray  you  all,  go  with  me. 

ShaL    I  must  excuse  myself,  master  Ford. 

Slen.  And  so  must  I,  sir:  we  have  appointed  to 
dine  with  mistress  Anne,  and  I  would  not  break  with 
her  for  more  money  than  I'll  speak  off. 

ShaL    We  have   lingered  about  a   match    between 

o 

Anne  Page  and  my  cousin  Slender,  and  this  day  we 
shall  have  our  answer. 

Slen.  I  hope  I  have  your  good  will,  father 
Page. 

Page.  You  have,  master  Slender ;  I  stand  wholly 
for  you : — but  my  wife,  master  doctor,  is  for  you  alto 
gether. 

Cains.  Ay,  by  gar ;  and  de  maid  is  love-a  me  ;  my 
nursh-a  Quickly  tell  me  so  mush. 

Host.  What  say  you  to  young  master  Fenton  ?  he 
capers,  he  dances,  he  has  eyes  of  youth,  he  writes 
verses,  he  speaks  holyday,2  he  smells  April  and  May : 

1  Specious. 

2  Out  of  the  common  style,  superior  to  the  vulgar,  in  allusion  to  the 
better  dress  worn  on  holydays. 


200  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  III. 

he  will  carry't,  he  will  carry't ;  'tis  in  his  buttons ; l 
he  will  carry't. 

Page.  Not  by  my  consent,  I  promise  you.  The 
gentleman  is  of  no  having : 2  he  kept  company  with 
the  wild  Prince  and  Poins ;  he  is  of  too  high  a  region, 
he  knows  too  much.  No,  he  shall  not  knit  a  knot  in 
his  fortunes  with  the  finger  of  my  substance :  if  he 
take  her,  let  him  take  her  simply ;  the  wealth  I  have 
waits  on  my  consent,  and  my  consent  goes  not  that  way. 

Ford.  I  beseech  you,  heartily,  some  of  you  go  home 
with  me  to  dinner :  besides  your  cheer,  you  shall  have 

sport ;  I  will  show  you  a  monster. Master  doctor, 

you  shall  go  ; — so  shall  you,  master  Page  ; — and  you, 
Sir  Hugh. 

Shal.  Well,  fare  you  well : — we  shall  have  the  freer 
wooing  at  master  Page's. 

[Exeunt  SHALLOW  and  SLENDER. 

Caius.    Go  home,  John  Rugby ;  I  come  anon. 

[Exit  RUGBY. 

Host.  Farewell,  my  hearts :  I  will  to  my  honest 
knight  Falstaff,  and  drink  canary  with  him. 

[Exit  Host. 

Ford.  [Aside. ~\  I  think,  I  shall  drink  in  pipe-wine 3 
first  with  him ;  I'll  make  him  dance.  Will  you  go, 
gentles  ? 

All.    Have  with  you,  to  see  this  monster.     [Exeunt. 

1  Alluding  to  an  ancient  custom  among  rustics,  of  trying  whether  they 
should  succeed  with  their  mistresses  by  carrying  the  flower  called  bache 
lor's  buttons  in  their  pockets.     They  judged  of  their  good  or  bad  success 
by  their  growing  or  not  growing  there.     Hence,  to  wear  bachelors  buttons , 
seems  to  have  grown  into  a  phrase  for  being  unmarried. 

2  i.  e.  Fortune  or  possessions. 

3  Canary  is  the  name  of  a  dance  as  well  as  of  a  wine.     Pipe-wine  is 
wine  not  from  the  bottle,  but  the  pipe  or  cask.     The  jest  consists  in  the 
ambiguity  of  the  word,  which  signifies  both  a  cask  of  wine  and  a  musical 
instrument. — "  I'll  give  him  pipe  wine,  which  will  make  him  dance." 


SC.  III.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  201 


SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  Ford's  House. 

Enter  MRS.  FORD  and  MRS.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.    What,  John  !  what,  Robert ! 

Mrs.  Page.    Quickly !  quickly :  Is  the  buck-basket — 

Mrs.  Ford.    I  warrant : — What,  Robin,  I  say ! 

Enter  Servants  with  a  basket. 

Mrs.  Page.    Come,  come,  come. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Here,  set  it  down. 

Mrs.  Page.  Give  your  men  the  charge ;  we  must 
be  brief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Marry,  as  I  told  you  before,  John  and 
Robert,  be  ready  here  hard  by  in  the  brewhouse ;  and 
when  I  suddenly  call  you,  come  forth,  and  (without  any 
pause,  or  staggering)  take  this  basket  on  your  shoulders  : 
that  done,  trudge  with  it  in  all  haste,  and  carry  it  among 
the  whitsters l  in  Datchet  mead,  and  there  empty  it  in 
the  muddy  ditch,  close  by  the  Thames's  side. 

Mrs.  Page.    You  will  do  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  have  told  them  over  and  over ;  they 
lack  no  direction :  Be  gone,  and  come  when  you  are 
called.  [Exeunt  Servants. 

Mrs.  Page.    Here  comes  little  Robin. 

Enter  ROBIN. 

Mrs.  Ford.  How  now,  my  eyas-musket?2  what 
news  with  you  ? 

Rob.  My  master  Sir  John  has  come  in  at  your  back 
door,  mistress  Ford,  and  requests  your  company. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  little  Jack-a-lent,3  have  you  been 
true  to  us  ? 

Rob.  Ay,  Pll  be  sworn :  My  master  knows  not  of 
your  being  here ;  and  hath  threatened  to  put  me  into 

1  Bleachers  of  linen. 

2  Young  sparrow-hawk,  here  used  as  a  jocular  term  for  a  small  child. 

3  A  stuffed  puppet  thrown  at  throughout  Lent,   as   cocks   were  at 
Shrovetide. 

VOL.  i.  26 


20:2  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  ill. 

everlasting  liberty,  if  I  tell  you  of  it ;  for,  he  swears, 
he'll  turn  me  away. 

Mrs.  Page.  Thou  art  a  good  boy  ;  this  secrecy  of 
thine  shall  be  a  tailor  to  thee,  and  shall  make  thee  a 
new  doublet  and  hose. — I'll  go  hide  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  so  : — Go  tell  thy  master,  I  am  alone. 
Mistress  Page,  remember  you  jour  eue.  [Exit  ROBLX. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  warrant  thee ;  if  I  do  not  act  it, 
hiss  me.  [Exit  MRS.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go  to  then  :  we'll  use  this  unwholesome 
humidity,  this  gross  watery  pumpion ; — we'll  teach 
him  to  know  turtles  from  jays.1 

Enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.  flacc  I  caught  thee,  my  heavenly  jewel?2 
Why,  now7  let  me  die,  for  I  have  lived  long  enough ; 
this  is  the  period  of  my  ambition  :  O  this  blessed  hour  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.    O  sweet  Sir  John  ! 

Fed.  Mistress  Ford,  I  cannot  cog,  I  cannot  prate, 
mistress  Ford.  Now7  shall  I  sin  in  my  wish :  I  would 
thy  husband  were  dead:  I'll  speak  it  before  the  best 
lord,  I  would  make  thee  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  your  lady,  Sir  John !  alas,  I  should  be 
a  pitiful  lady. 

Fal.  Let  the  court  of  France  show  me  such  another  ; 
I  see  how  thine  eye  would  emulate  the  diamond : 
Thou  hast  the  right  arched  bent3  of  the  brow,  that 
becomes  the  ship-tire,  the  tire-valiant,  or  any  tire  of 
Venetian  admittance.4 

Mrs.  Ford.  A.  plain  kerchief,  Sir  John  :  my  brows 
become  nothing  else ;  nor  that  well  neither. 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,5  thou  art  a  traitor  to  say  so  :  thou 
would'st  make  an  absolute  courtier ;  and  the  firm  fix- 

1  i.  e.  honest  women  from  loose  ones. 

2  This  is  the  first  line  in  the  second  song  of  Sidney's  Astrophel  and 
Stella. 

3  First  folio : — beauty. 

4  In  how  much  request  the  Venetian  tire  or  head-dress  was  formerly 
held,  appears  from  Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy,  1624.     "Let  her 
have  the  Spanish  gait,  the   Venetian  tire,  Italian  compliments  and  en 
dowments." 

5  The  folio  of  1G23  omits  the  words  "  By  the  Lord,"  and  reads  "  Thou 
art  a  tyrant." 


SC.  III.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  203 

tare  of  thy  foot  would  give  an  excellent  motion  to  thy 
gait,  in  a  semi-circled  farthingale.  I  see  what  thou 
wert,  if  fortune  thy  foe 1  were  not :  nature  is  thy 
friend  :  Come,  thou  canst  not  hide  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Believe  me,  there's  no  such  thing  in  me. 

Fed.  What  made  me  love  thee  ?  let  that  persuade 
thee,  there's  something  extraordinary  in  thee.  Come, 
I  cannot  cog,  and  say  thou  art  this  and  that,  like  a 
many  of  these  lisping  hawthorn  buds,  that  come  like 
women  in  men's  apparel,  and  smell  like  Bucklersburv9 
in  simple-time  ;  I  cannot :  but  I  love  thee  ;  none  but 
thee  ;  and  thou  deservest  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Do  not  betray  me,  sir ;  I  fear  you  love 
mistress  Page. 

Fed.  Thou  might 'st  as  well  say,  I  love  to  walk  by 
the  Counter  3-gate  ;  which  is  as  hateful  to  me  as  the 
reek  of  a  lime-kiln. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Well,  heaven  knows  how  I  love  you  ; 
and  you  shall  one  day  find  it. 

FaL    Keep  in  that  mind  ;   I'll  deserve  it. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  I  must  tell  you,  so  you  do;  or  else 
I  could  not  be  in  that  mind. 

Rob.  [Within.]  Mistress  Ford,  mistress  Ford!  here's 
mistress  Page  at  the  door,  sweating  and  blowing,  and 
looking  wildly,  and  would  needs  speak  with  you  pres 
ently. 

FaL  She  shall  not  see  me  ;  I  will  ensconce  me  be 
hind  the  arras.4 

Mrs.  Ford.  Pray  you,  do  so ;  she's  a  very  tattling 
woman. —  [FALSTAFF  hides  himself. 

Enter  MISTRESS  PAGE  and  ROBIN. 
What's  the  matter  ?  how  now  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    O  mistress  Ford,  what  have  you  done  ? 

1  Fortune  my  foe  is  the  beginning  of  a  popular  old  ballad  enumerating 
all  the  misfortunes  that  fall  on  mankind  through  the  caprice  of  fortune. 

~  Formerly  chiefly  inhabited  by  druggists,  who  sold  all  kind  of  herbs. 
green  as  well  as  dry. 

:i  The  Counter  as  a  prison  was  odious  to  Falstaff. 

4  i.  e.  in  the  space  left  between  the  walls  and  wooden  frames  on  which 
the  tapestry  was  hung. 


204  MERRY    WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  III. 

You're  ashamed,  you  are  overthrown,  you  are  undone 
forever. 

Mrs.  Ford.    What's  the  matter,  good  mistress  Page  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  O  well-a-day,  mistress  Ford !  having 
an  honest  man  to  your  husband,  to  give  him  such  cause 
of  suspicion ! 

Mrs.  Ford.    What  cause  of  suspicion  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  What  cause  of  suspicion !- — Out  upon 
you  !  how  am  I  mistook  in  you  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.    Why,  alas  !   what's  the  matter  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Your  husband's  coming  hither,  woman, 
with  all  the  officers  in  Windsor,  to  search  for  a  gentle 
man,  that,  he  says,  is  here  now  in  the  house,  by  your 
consent,  to  take  an  ill  advantage  of  his  absence  :  You 
are  undone. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Speak  louder. — [Aside.'} — 'Tis  not  so, 
I  hope. 

Mrs.  Page.  Pray  heaven  it  be  not  so,  that  you  have 
such  a  man  here  ;  but  'tis  most  certain  your  husband's 
coming  with  half  Windsor  at  his  heels,  to  search  for 
such  a  one.  I  come  before  to  tell  you  :  If  you  know 
yourself  clear,  why,  I  am  glad  of  it :  but  if  you  have  a 
friend  here,  convey,  convey  him  out.  Be  not  amazed: 
call  all  your  senses  to  you  ;  defend  your  reputation,  or 
bid  farewell  to  your  good  life  forever. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  shall  I  do  ? — There  is  a  gentle 
man,  my  dear  friend ;  and  I  fear  not  mine  own  shame 
so  much  as  his  peril :  I  had  rather  than  a  thousand 
pound,  he  were  out  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Page.  For  shame ;  never  stand,  you  had  rather, 
and  you  had  rather ;  your  husband's  here  at  hand ;  be 
think  you  of  some  conveyance  :  in  the  house  you  can 
not  hide  him. — O,  how  have  you  deceived  me  ! — Look, 
here  is  a  basket ;  if  he  be  of  any  reasonable  stature,  he 
may  creep  in  here  ;  and  throw  foul  linen  upon  him,  as 
if  it  were  going  to  bucking :  Or,  it  is  whiting  time,1 
send  him  by  your  two  men  to  Datchet  mead. 

Mrs.  Ford.  He's  too  big  to  go  in  there  :  What  shall 
I  do? 

i  Bleaching1  time. 


SC    lit.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  205 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF. 

FaL  Let  me  sce't ;  let  me  see't !  O  let  me  see't ! 
I'll  in,  I'll  in  ; — follow  your  friend's  counsel : — I'll  in. 

Mrs.  Page.  What !  Sir  John  Falstaff !  Are  these 
your  letters,  knight  ? 

FaL    I    love    thee,    and  none    but  thee ;    help   me 

away  :  let  me  creep  in  here  ;  I'll  never 

\_He  goes  into  the  basket ;  they  cover  him  with  foul  linen. 

Mrs.  Page.  Help  to  cover  your  master,  boy :  Call 
your  men,  mistress  Ford  : — You  dissembling  knight ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  What,  Jdhn,  Robert,  John !  [Exit 
ROBIN  ;  Re-enter  Servants.]  Go,  take  up  these  clothes 
here,  quickly ;  where's  the  cowl-staff? :  look,  how  you 
drumble : 2  carry  them  to  the  laundress  in  Datchet 
mead ;  quickly,  come. 

Enter  FORD,  PAGE,  CAIUS,  and  SIR  HUGH  EVANS. 

Ford.  Pray  you,  come  near :  if  I  suspect  without 
cause,  why  then  make  sport  at  me,  then  let  me  be 
your  jest ;  I  deserve  it. — How  now  ?  whither  bear 
you  this  ? 

Seyc.    To  the  laundress,  forsooth. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Why,  what  have  you  to  do  whither 
they  bear  it  ?  You  were  best  meddle  with  buck- 
washing. 

Ford.  Buck  ?  I  would  I  could  wash  myself  of  the 
buck!  Buck!  buck!  buck?  Ay,  buck !  I  warrant 
you,  buck ;  and  of  the  season  too,  it  shall  appear. 
[Exeunt  Servants  with  the  basket.]  Gentlemen,  I 
have  dreamed  to-night ;  I'll  tell  you  my  dream.  Here, 
here,  here  be  my  keys  :  ascend  my  chambers,  search, 
seek,  find  out :  I'll  warrant  we'll  unkennel  the  fox : 
— Let  me  stop  this  way  first : — So,  now  uncape.3 

1  A  staff  used  for  carrying  a  cowl,  or  tub  with  two  handles,  to  fetch 
water  in. 

2  To  dmmble  and  drone  meant  to  move  sluggishly. 

3  Hanmer  proposed  to  read  uncouple;    but,  perhaps,  uncape  had  the 
same  signification.     It  means,  at  any  rate,  to  begin  the  hunt  after  him, 
whou  the  holes  for  escape  had  been  stopped. 


206  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  III. 

Page.  Good  master  Ford,  be  contented  ;  you  wrong 
yourself  too  much. 

Ford.  True,  master  Page. — Up,  gentlemen ;  you 
shall  see  sport  anon  :  follow  me,  gentlemen.  [Exit. 

Eva.    This  is  fery  fantastical  humors,  and  jealousies. 

Caius.  By  gar,  'tis  no  de  fashion  of  France  :  it  is 
not  jealous  in  France. 

Page.  Nay,  follow  him,  gentlemen  ;  see  the  issue  of 
his  search.  [Exeunt  EVANS,  PAGE,  and  CAIUS. 

Mrs.  Page.    Is  there  not  a  doable  excellency  in  this  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  know  not  which  pleases  me  better, 
that  my  husband  is  deceived,  or  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  What  a  taking  was  he  in,  when  your 
husband  asked  who 1  was  in  the  basket. ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  am  half  afraid  he  will  have  need  of 
washing  ;  so  throwing  him  into  the  water  will  do  him 
a  benefit. 

Mrs.  Page.  Hang  him,  dishonest  rascal !  I  would 
all  of  the  same  strain  were  in  the  same  distress. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  think  my  husband  hath  some  special 
suspicion  of  Falstaff 's  being  here  ;  for  I  never  sawr  him 
so  gross  in  his  jealousy  till  nowr. 

Mrs.  Page.  I  will  lay  a  plot  to  try  that :  And  we 
will  yet  have  more  tricks  with  Falstaff:  his  dissolute 
disease  will  scarce  obey  this  medicine. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  send  that  foolish  carrion,  mis 
tress  Quickly,  to  him,  and  excuse  his  throwing  into  the 
water ;  and  give  him  another  hope,  to  betray  him  to 
another  punishment  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  We'll  do  it ;  let  him  be  sent  for  to-mor 
row7  ei<rht  o'clock  to  have  amends. 

o 

Re-enter  FORD,  PAGE,  CAIUS,  and  SIR  HUGH  EVANS. 

Ford.  I  cannot  find  him  :  may  be  the  knave  bragged 
of  that  he  could  not  compass. 

Mrs.  Page.    Heard  you  that  ? 

1  Ritson  thinks  we  should  read  what.  This  emendation  is  supported 
by  a  subsequent  passage,  where  Falstaff  says,  "the  jealous  knave 
asked  them  once  or  twice  what  was  in  the  basket."  It  is  remarkable  that 
Ford  asked  no  such  question. 


SC.  III.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  207 

Mrs.  Ford.  Ay,  ay,  peace  : — You  use  me  well,  mas 
ter  Ford,  do  you  ? 

Ford.    Ay,  I  do  so. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  make  you  better  than  your 
thoughts  ? 

o 

Ford.    Amen. 

Mrs.  Page.  You  do  yourself  mighty  wrong,  master 
Ford. 

Ford.    Ay,  ay  ;  I  must  bear  it. 

Eca.  If  there  be  any  pody  in  the  house,  and  in  the 
chambers,  and  in  the  coffers,  and  in  the  presses,  heaven 
forgive  my  sins  at  the  day  of  judgment. 

Caius.    By  gar,  nor  I  too ;  dere  is  no  bodies. 

Page.  Fie,  lie,  master  Ford  !  are  you  not  ashamed  ? 
What  spirit,  what  devil  suggests  this  imagination  ?  I 
would  not  have  your  distemper  in  this  kind  for  the 
wealth  of  Windsor  Castle. 

Ford.    'Tis  my  fault,  master  Page  :   I  suffer  for  it. 

Em.  You  suffer  for  a  pad  conscience :  your  wife  is 
as  honest  a  'omans  as  I  will  desires  amon<r  five  thou- 

O 

sand,  and  five  hundred  too. 

Caius.    By  gar,  I  see  'tis  an  honest  woman. 

Ford.  Well ; — I  promised  you  a  dinner  : — Come, 
come,  walk  in  the  park:  I  pray  you,  pardon  me  ;  I  will 
hereafter  make  known  to  you,  why  I  have  done  this. — 
Come,  wife  ;  come,  mistress  Page  ;  I  pray  you  par 
don  me  ;  pray  heartily,  pardon  me. 

Page.  Let's  go  in,  gentlemen ;  but,  trust  me,  we'll 
mock  him.  1  do  invite  you  to-morrow  morning  to  my 
house  to  breakfast ;  after,  we'll  a  birding  together ;  I 
have  a  fine  hawk  for  the  bush:  Shall  it  be  so? 

Ford.    Any  thing. 

Eva.  If  there  is  one,  1  shall  make  two  in  the 
company. 

Caius.   If  there  be  one  or  two,  I  shall  make-a  de  turd. 

Eva.    In  your  teeth  :  for  shame. 

Ford.    Pray  you  go,  master  Page. 

Eva.  I  pray  you  now  remembrance  to-morrow,  on 
the  lousy  knave,  mine  host. 

Cains.    Dat  is  good  ;  by  gar,  vit  all  my  heart. 


208  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  III. 

Eva.  A  lousy  knave ;  to  have  his  gibes,  and  his 
mockeries.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Page's  House. 

Enter  FENTON  and  MISTRESS  ANNE  PAGE. 

Pent.    I  see,  I  cannot  get  thy  father's  love  ; 
Therefore,  no  more  turn  me  to  him,  sweet  Nan. 

Anne.    Alas  !  how  then  ? 

Pent.  Why,  thou  must  be  thyself. 

He  doth  object,  I  am  too  great  of  birth  ; 
And  that,  my  state  being  galled  with  my  expense, 
I  seek  to  heal  it  only  by  his  wealth : 

Besides  these,  other  bars  he  lays  before  me, 

My  riots  past,  my  wild  societies; 
And  tells  me,  'tis  a  thing  impossible 
I  should  love  thee,  but  as  a  property. 

Anne.    May  be,  he  tells  you  true. 

Pent.    No,  heaven  so  speed  me  in  my  time  to  come  ! 
Albeit  I  will  confess,  thy  father's  wealth 
Was  the  first  motive  that  I  wooed  thee,  Anne ; 
Yet,  wooing  thee,  I  found  thee  of  more  value 
Than  stamps  in  gold,  or  sums  in  sealed  bags ; 
And  'tis  the  very  riches  of  thyself 
That  now  I  aim  at. 

Anne.  Gentle  master  Fenton, 

Yet  seek  my  father's  love  :  still  seek  it,  sir : 
If  opportunity  and  humblest  suit 
Cannot  attain  it,  why  then — Hark  you  hither. 

[They  converse  apart. 

Enter  SHALLOW,  SLENDER,  and  MRS.  QUICKLY, 

Shal.  Break  their  talk,  mistress  Quickly ;  my  kins 
man  shall  speak  for  himself. 

Slen.  I'll  make  a  shaft  or  a  bolt  on't;1  slid,  'tis  but 
venturing. 

1  A  shaft  was  a  long  arrow,  and  a  bolt  a  thick  short  one.  The  proverb 
probably  means,  "  I'll  make  something  or  other  of  it — I  Avill  do  it  by 
some  means  or  other." 


SC.  IV.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  209 

Shal.    Be  not  dismayed. 

Slen.  No,  she  shall  not  dismay  me :  I  care  not  for 
that, — but  that  I  am  afeard. 

Quick.  Hark  ye;  master  Slender  would  speak  a 
word  with  you. 

Anne.    I  come  to  him. — This  is  my  father's  choice. 
O,  what  a  world  of  vile  ill-favored  faults 
Looks  handsome  in  three  hundred  pounds  a  year ! 

[Aside. 

Quick.  And  how  does  good  master  Fienton  ?  Pray 
you,  a  word  with  you. 

Shal.  She's  coming ;  to  her,  coz.  O  boy,  thou 
hadst  a  father ! 

Slen.  I  had  a  father,  mistress  Anne; — my  uncle 
can  tell  you  good  jests  of  him : — Pray  you,  uncle,  tell 
mistress  Anne  the  jest,  how  my  father  stole  two  geese 
out  of  a  pen,  good  uncle. 

Shal.    Mistress  Anne,  my  cousin  loves  you. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  do ;  as  wrell  as  I  love  any  woman 
in  Gloucestershire. 

Shal.    He  will  maintain  you  like  a  gentlewoman. 

Slen.  Ay,  that  I  will,  come  cut  and  long  tail,1  under 
the  degree  of  a  'squire. 

Shal.  He  will  make  you  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
jointure. 

Anne.  Good  master  Shallow,  let  him  woo  for 
himself. 

Shal.  Marry,  I  thank  you  for  it;  I  thank  you  foi 
that  good  comfort.  She  calls  you,  coz:  I'll  leave  you. 

Anne.    Now,  master  Slender. 

Slen.    Now,  good  mistress  Anne. 

Anne.    What  is  your  will  ? 

Slen.  My  will?  od's  heartlings,  that's  a  pretty  jest, 
indeed  !  I  ne'er  made  my  will  yet,  I  thank  heaven  ;  1 
am  not  such  a  sickly  creature,  I  give  heaven  praise. 

Anne.  I  mean,  master  Slender,  what  would  you 
with  me  ? 

1  The  sense  is  obviously,  "  Come  who  will  to  contend  with  me,  under 
the  degree  of  a  'squire."     Cut  and  longtail  means  all  kinds  of  curtail  curs, 
and  sporting  dogs,  and  all  others. 
VOL.  i.  27 


210  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  ill. 

Slen.  Truly,  for  mine  own  part,  I  would  little  or 
nothing  with  you  :  Your  father  and  my  uncle  have 
made  motions  ;  if  it  be  my  luck,  so  :  if  not,  happy  man 
be  his  dole  !  They  can  tell  you  how  things  go,  better 
than  I  can  :  You  may  ask  your  father  ;  here  he  comes. 

Enter  PAGE  and  MISTRESS  PAGE. 

Page.    Now,  master  Slender : — Love  him,  daughter 

Anne. — 

Why,  how  now!  what  does  master  Fenton  here  ? 
You  wrong  me,  sir,  thus  still  to  haunt  my  house  : 
I  told  you,  sir,  my  daughter  is  disposed  of. 
Pent.    Nay,  master  Page,  be  not  impatient. 
Mrs.  Page.    Good  master  Fenton,  come  not  to  my 

child. 

Page.    She  is  no  match  for  you. 
Pent.    Sir,  will  you  hear  me  ? 

Page.  No,  good  master  Fenton. 

Come,  master  Shallow  ;  come,  son  Slender  ;  in  :-— 
Knowing  my  mind,  you  wrong  me,  master  Fenton. 

[Exeunt  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 
Quick.    Speak  to  mistress  Page. 
Pent.    Good    mistress    Page,  for   that    I    love   your 

daughter 

In  such  a  righteous  fashion  as  I  do, 
Perforce,  against  all  checks,  rebukes,  and  manners, 
I  must  advance  the  colors  of  my  love, 
And  not  retire  :  Let  me  have  your  good  will. 

Anne.    Good    mother,  do    not    marry  me    to   yond' 

fool. 
Mrs.  Page.    I  mean   it   not ;  I  seek   you  a    better 

husband. 

Quick.    That's  my  master,  master  doctor. 
Anne.    Alas,  I  had  rather  be  set  quick  i'  the  earth, 
And  bowl'd  to  death  with  turnips. 

Mrs.  Page.    Come,  trouble  not  yourself:  Good  mas 
ter  Fenton, 

I  will  not  be  your  friend,  nor  enemy. 
My  daughter  will  I  question  IIOAV  she  loves  you, 
4nd  as  1  find  her,  so  am  I  affected ; 


SC.  V.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  211 

Till  then,  farewell,  sir  : — she  must  needs  go  in  ; 
Her  father  will  be  angry. 

[Exeunt  MRS.  PAGE  and  ANNE. 

Pent.    Farewell,  gentle  mistress  ;  farewell,  Nan. 

Quick.  This  is  my  doing,  now  : — Nay,  said  I,  will 
you  cast  away  your  child  on  a  fool,  and  a  physician  ? 
Look  on  master  Fenton  : — this  is  my  doing. 

Feat.  I  thank  thee  ;  and  I  pray  thee,  once1  to-night 
give  my  sweet  Nan  this  ring:  There's  for  thy  pains. 

[Exit. 

Quick.  Now  heaven  send  thee  good  fortune  !  A  kind 
heart  he  hath :  a  woman  would  run  through  fire  and 
water  for  such  a  kind  heart.  But  yet,  I  would  my 
master  had  mistress  Anne;  or  I  would  master  Slender 
had  her;  or,  in  sooth,  I  would  master  Fenton  had  her: 
I  will  do  what  I  can  for  them  all  three  ;  for  so  I  have 
promised,  and  I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word ;  but 
speciously2  for  master  Fenton.  Well,  I  must  of  another 
errand  to  Sir  John  FalstafF  from  my  two  mistresses  : 
What  a  beast  am  I  to  slack 3  it  ?  [Exit. 


SCENE  V.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  and  BARDOLPH. 

Fed.    Bardolph,  1  say, — 

Bard.    Here,  sir. 

Pal.  Go  fetch  me  a  quart  of  sack  ;  put  a  toast  in't. 
[Exit  BARD.]  Have  I  lived  to  be  carried  in  a  basket, 
like  a  barrow  of  butcher's  offal;  and  to  be  thrown  into 
the  Thames  ?  Well ;  if  I  be  served  such  another  trick, 
I'll  have  my  brains  ta'en  out,  and  buttered,  and  give 
them  to  a  dog  for  a  new  year's  gift.  The  rogues 
slighted  me  into  the  river  with  as  little  remorse,  as 
they  would  have  drowned  a  bitch's  blind  puppies,  fif 
teen  i'  the  litter :  and  you  may  know  by  my  size,  that 
I  have  a  kind  of  alacrity  in  sinking  ;  if  the  bottom  were 

i  i.  e.  some  time  to-night.  2  Specially.  3  Neglect. 


212  MERRY   WIVES    OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  HI. 

as  deep  as  hell,  I  should  down.  I  had  been  drowned, 
but  that  the  shore  was  shelvy  and  shallow ;  a  death  that 
I  abhor ;  for  the  water  swells  a  man  ;  and  what  a  thing 
should  I  have  been,  when  I  had  been  swelled  !  I  should 
have  been  a  mountain  of  mummy. 

Re-enter  BARDOLPH,  with  the  wine. 

Bard.  Here's  mistress  Quickly,  sir,  to  speak  with 
you. 

Fal.  Come,  let  me  pour  in  some  sack  to  the  Thames 
water ;  for  my  belly's  as  cold,  as  if  I  had  swallowed 
snow-balls  for  pills  to  cool  the  reins.  Call  her  in. 

Bard.    Come  in,  wToman. 

Enter  MRS.  QUICKLY. 

Quick.  By  your  leave ;  I  cry  you  mercy :  Give 
your  worship  good-morrow. 

Fal.  Take  away  these  chalices :  Go  brew  me  a 
pottle  of  sack  finely. 

Bar.    With  eggs,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Simple  of  itself;  I'll  no  pullet-sperm  in  my 
brewage.  [Exit  BARDOLPH.]  How  now  ? 

Quick.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  your  worship  from 
mistress  Ford. 

Fal.  Mistress  Ford !  I  have  had  ford  enough :  I 
was  thrown  into  the  ford  :  I  have  my  belly  full  of  ford. 

Quick.  Alas  the  day !  good  heart,  that  was  not  her 
fault ;  she  does  so  take  on  with  her  men  ;  they  mistook 
their  erection. 

.  Fal.    So  did  I  mine,  to  build  upon  a  foolish  woman's 
promise. 

Quick.  Well,  she  laments,  sir,  for  it,  that  it  would 
yearn  your  heart  to  see  it.  Her  husband  goes  this 
morning  a  birding ;  she  desires  you  once  more  to  come 
to  .her  between  eight  and  nine  :  I  must  carry  her  word 
qmekly :  she'll  make  you  amends,  I  warrant  you. 

Fal.  Well,  I  will  visit  her :  Tell  her  so ;  and  bid 
her  think  what  a  man  is :  let  her  consider  his  frailty, 
and  then  judge  of  my  merit. 

Quick.'  I  will  tell  her. 


SC.  V.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  213 

Fal.   Do  so.     Between  nine  and  ten,  say'st  thou  ? 

Quick.    Eight  and  nine,  sir. 

Fal.   Well,  be  gone :  I  will  not  miss  her. 

Quick.    Peace  be  with  you,  sir  !  [Exit. 

Fal.  I  marvel  I  hear  not  of  master  Brook  ;  he  sent 
me  word  to  stay  within ;  I  like  his  money  well.  O, 
here  he  comes. 

Enter  FORD. 

Ford.    Bless  you,  sir  ! 

Fal.  Now,  master  Brook !  you  come  to  know  what 
hath  passed  between  me  and  Ford's  wife  ? 

Ford.    That,  indeed,  Sir  John,  is  my  business. 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  not  lie  to  you ;  I  was  at 
her  house  the  hour  she  appointed  me. 

Ford.    And  how  sped  you,  sir? 

Fal.    Very  ill-favoredly,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  How  so,  sir  ?  Did  she  change  her  determi 
nation  ? 

Fal.  No,  master  Brook ;  but  the  peaking  cornuto, 
her  husband,  master  Brook,  dwelling  in  a  continual 
'lartim  of  jealousy,  comes  me  in  the  instant  of  our  en 
counter,  after  we  had  embraced,  kissed,  protested,  and, 
as  it  were,  spoke  the  prologue  of  our  comedy ;  and  at 
his  heels,  a  rabble  of  his  companions,  thither  provoked 
and  instigated  by  his  distemper,  and,  forsooth,  to  search 
his  house  for  his  wife's  love. 

Ford.    What,  while  you  were  there  ? 

Fal.    While  I  was  there. 

Ford.  And  did  he  search  for  you,  and  could  not 
find  you  ? 

Fal.  You  shall  hear.  As  good  luck  would  have  it, 
comes  in  one  mistress  Page ;  gives  intelligence  of 
Ford's  approach ;  and,  by  her  invention,  and  Ford's 
wife's  distraction,  they  conveyed  me  into  a  buck- 
basket. 

Ford.    A  buck-basket  ? 

Fal.  By  the  Lord,  a  buck-basket :  rammed  me  in 
with  foul  shirts  and  smocks,  socks,  foul  stockings,  and 
greasy  napkins ;  that,  master  Brook,  there  was  the 


2!  4  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  III. 

rankest  compound  of  villanous  smell,  that  ever  offended 
nostril. 

Ford.    And  how  long  lay  you  there  ? 

Fal.  Nay,  you  shall  hear,  master  Brook,  what  I 
have  suffered  to  bring  this  woman  to  evil  for  your  good. 
Being  thus  crammed  in  a  basket,  a  couple  of  Ford's 
knaves,  his  hinds,  were  called  forth  by  their  mistress, 
to  carry  me  in  the  name  of  foul  clothes  to  Datchct- 
lane  :  they  took  me  on  their  shoulders  ;  met  the  jealous 
knave  their  master  in  the  door ;  who  asked  them  once 
or  twice  what  they  had  in  their  basket :  I  quaked  for 
fear,  lest  the  lunatic,  knave  would  have  searched  it ;  but 
Fate,  ordaining  he  should  be  a  cuckold,  held  his  hand. 
Well ;  on  went  he  for  a  search,  and  away  went  I  for 
foul  clothes.  But  mark  the  sequel,  master  Brook:  I 
suffered  the  pangs  of  three  several  deaths  ;  first,  an 
intolerable  fright,  to  be  detected  with1  a  jealous  rotten 
bellwether :  next,  to  be  compassed  like  a  good  bilbo, 
in  the  circumference  of  a  peck,  hilt  to  point,  heel  to 
head  :  and  then,  to  be  stopped  in,  like  a  strong  dis 
tillation,  with  stinking  clothes  that  fretted  in  their  own 

^  o 

grease  :  think  of  that, — a  man  of  my  kidney, — think 
of  that ;  that  am  as  subject  to  heat  as  butter ;  a  man 
of  continual  dissolution  and  thaw ;  it  was  a  miracle  to 
'scape  suffocation.  And  in  the  height  of  this  hath, 
when  !  was  more  than  half  stewed  in  grease,  like  a 
Dutch  dish,  to  be  thrown  into  the  Thames,  and  cooled, 
glowing  hot,  in  that  surge,  like  a  horse-shoe  ;  think  of 
that ; — hissing  hot, — think  of  that,  master  Brook. 

Ford.  In  good  sadness,  sir,  I  am  sorry  that  for  my 
sake  you  have  suffered  all  this.  My  suit  then  is  des 
perate  ;  you'll  undertake  her  no  more  ? 

Fal.  Master  Brook,  I  will  be  thrown  into  jEtna,  as 
I  have  been  into  Thames,  ere  I  will  leave  her  thus. 
Her  husband  is  this  morning  gone  a  birding :  I  have 
received  from  her  another  embassy  of  meeting  ;  'twixt 
eight  and  nine  is  the  hour,  master  Brook. 

Ford.    'Tis  past  eight  already,  sir. 

,  and  o/*,  wero  used  indiscriminately  by  our  ancestors. 


SC.  I.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  215 

FaL  Is  it  ?  I  will  then  address  me  to  my  appoint 
ment.  Come  to  me  at  your  convenient  leisure,  and 
you  shall  know  how  I  speed  ;  and  the  conclusion  shall 
be  crowned  with  your  enjoying  her:  Adieu.  You 
shall  have  her,  master  Brook ;  master  Brook,  you  shall 
cuckold  Ford.  [Exit, 

Ford.  Hum  !  ha  !  is  this  a  vision  ?  is  this  a  dream  ? 
do  I  sleep  ?  Master  Ford,  awake ;  awake,  master 
Ford  ;  there's  a  hole  made  in  your  best  coat,  master 
Ford.  This  'tis  to  be  married  !  this  'tis  to  have  linen, 
and  buck-baskets ! — Well,  I  will  proclaim  myself  what 
I  am  :  I  will  now  take  the  lecher ;  he  is  at  my  house  : 
he  cannot  'scape  me ;  'tis  impossible  he  should ;  he 
cannot  creep  into  a  halfpenny  purse,  nor  into  a  pepper 
box  :  but,  lest  the  devil  that  guides  him  should  aid 
him,  I  will  search  impossible  places.  Though  what  I 
am  I  cannot  avoid,  yet  to  be  what  I  would  not,  shall 
not  make  me  tame  :  if  I  have  horns  to  make  one  mad, 
let  the  proverb  go  with  me,  I'll  be  horn  mad.  [Exit. 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Street. 

Enter  MRS.  PAGE,  MRS.  QUICKLY,  and  WILLIAM. 

Mrs.  Page.  Is  he  at  master  Ford's  already,  think'st 
thou  ? 

Quick.  Sure,  he  is  by  this ;  or  will  be  presently : 
but  truly,  he  is  very  courageous  l  mad,  about  his  throw 
ing  into  the  water.  Mistress  Ford  desires  you  to  come 
suddenly. 

Mrs.  Page.  I'll  be  with  her  by  and  by;  I'll  but 
bring  my  young  man  here  to  school :  Look,  where  his 
master  comes ;  'tis  a  playing-day,  I  see. 

l  Outrageous. 


216  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV. 

Enter  SIR  HUGH  EVANS. 

How  now,  Sir  Hugh  ?  no  school  to-day  ? 

Eva.  No :  master  Slender  is  let  the  boys  leave 
to  play. 

Quick.    Blessing  of  his  heart ! 

Mrs.  Page.  Sir  Hugh,  my  husband  says,  my  son 
profits  nothing  in  the  world  at  his  book ;  I  pray  you, 
ask  him  some  questions  in  his  accidence. 

Eva.  Come  hither,  William ;  hold  up  your  head ; 
come. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  on,  sirrah ;  hold  up  your  head ; 
answer  your  master,  be  not  afraid. 

Eva.    William,  how  many  numbers  is  in  nouns  ? 

Will.    Two. 

Quick.  Truly,  I  thought  there  had  been  one  number 
more  ;  because  they  say,  ocVs  nouns. 

Eva.    Peace  your  tattlings.     What  is  fair,  William  ? 

MIL    Pulcher. 

Quick.  Poulcats !  there  are  fairer  things  than  poul- 
cats,  sure. 

Eva.  You  are  a  very  simplicity  'oman ;  I  pray  you 
peace.  What  is  lapis,  William  ? 

mil.    A  stone. 

Eva.    And  what  is  a  stone,  William  ? 

mil    A  pebble. 

Eva.  No,  it  is  lapis ;  I  pray  you  remember  in  your 
prain. 

Will.    Lapis. 

Eva.  That  is  good,  William.  What  is  he,  William, 
that  does  lend  articles  ? 

Will.  Articles  are  borrowed  of  the  pronoun ;  and 
be  thus  declined,  —  Singulariter,  nominativo,  hie, 
hcec,  hoc. 

Eva.  Nominative,  hig,  hag,  hog;  pray  you,  mark: 
genitivo,  hujus :  Well,  what  is  your  accusative  case  ? 

Will.   Accusative,  hinc. 

Eva.  I  pray  you,  have  your  remembrance,  child ; 
Accusative,  hing,  hang,  hog. 

Quick.    Hang  hog  is  Latin  for  bacon,  I  warrant  you. 


SC.  I.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR  217 

Eva.  Leave  your  prabbles,  'oman.  What  is  the 
focative  case,  William  ? 

Will.    O — vocativo,  O. 

Eva.    Remember,  William  ;  focative  is  caret. 

Quick.    And  that's  a  good  root. 

Eva.    'Oman,  forbear. 

Mrs.  Page.   Peace. 

Eva.   What  is  your  genitive  case  plural,  William  ? 

Will.    Genitive  case  ? 

Eva.   Ay. 

Will.    Genitive, — horum,  harum,  horum. 

Quick.  'Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case  !  fie  on  her ! — 
never  name  her,  child,  if  she  be  a  whore. 

Eva.   For  shame,  'oman. 

Quick.  You  do  ill  to  teach  the  child  such  words : 
he  teaches  him  to  hick  and  to  hack,  which  they'll  do 
fast  enough  of  themselves ;  and  to  call  horum : — fie 
upon  you ! 

Eva.  'Oman,  art  thou  lunatics  ?  hast  thou  no  under 
standings  for  thy  cases,  and  the  numbers  of  the  gen 
ders  ?  Thou  art  as  foolish  Christian  creatures  as  I 
would  desires. 

Mrs.  Page.    Pr'ythee  hold  thy  peace. 

Eva.  Show  me  now,  William,  some  declensions  of 
your  pronouns. 

Will.    Forsooth,  I  have  forgot. 

Eva.  It  is  ki,  kce,  cod ;  if  you  forget  your  kies,  your 
Jcas,  and  your  cods,  you  must  be  preeches.1  Go  your 
ways,  and  play,  go. 

Mrs.  Page.  He  is  a  better  scholar  than  I  thought 
he  was. 

Eva.  He  is  a  good  sprag  2  memory.  Farewell,  mis 
tress  Page. 

Mrs.  Page.  Adieu,  good  Sir  Hugh.  [Exit  SIR 
HUGH.]  Get  you  home,  boy. — Come,  we  stay  too 
long.  [Exeunt. 

1  Breeched,  i.  e.  flogged. 

2  Quick,  alert.    The  word  is  sprack 
VOL.  i.  28 


216  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV. 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Ford's  House. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  and  MRS.  FORD. 

Fed.  Mistress  Ford,  jour  sorrow  hath  eaten  up  my 
sufferance :  I  see,  you  are  obsequious 1  in  your  love, 
and  I  profess  requital  to  a  hair's  breadth ;  riot  only, 
mistress  Ford,  in  the  simple  office  of  love,  but  in  all 
the  accoutrement,  complement,  and  ceremony  of  it. 
But  are  you  sure  of  your  husband  now  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.    He's  a  birding,  sweet  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Page.  [Within.^  What  hoa,  gossip  Ford! 
what  hoa ! 

Mrs.  Ford.    Step  into  the  chamber,  Sir  John. 

[Exit  FALSTAFF. 

Enter  MRS.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Page.  How  now,  sweetheart  ?  who's  at  home 
beside  yourself? 

Mrs.  Ford.    Why,  none  but  mine  own  people. 

Mrs.  Page.    Indeed  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.    No,  certainly  ; — speak  louder.      [Aside. 

Mrs.  Page.  Truly,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  nobody 
here. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Why  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  woman,  your  husband  is  in  his 
old  limes 2  again  :  he  so  takes  on  yonder  with  my  hus 
band  ;  so  rails  against  all  married  mankind ;  so  curses 
all  Eve's  daughters,  of  what  complexion  soever ;  and 
so  buffets  himself  on  the  forehead,  crying,  Peer  out, 
peer  out!3  that  any  madness,  I  ever  yet  beheld, 
seemed  but  tameness,  civility,  and  patience,  to  this  his 

1  So  in  Hamlet ;  "  To  do  obsequious  sorrow."     The  epithet  obsequious 
refers,  in  both  instances,  to  the  seriousness  with  which  obsequies  are 
performed. 

2  i.  e.  lunacy,  frenzy. 

3  Shakspeare  refers  to  a  sport  of  children,  who  thus  call  on  a  snail  to 
push  forth  his  horns . 

"  Peer  out,  peer  out,  peer  out  of  your  hole, 
Or  else  I'll  beat  you  as  black  as  a  coal." 


SC.  11.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  219 

distemper  he  is  in  now :  I  am  glad  the  fat  knight  is 
not  here. 

J\[rs.  Ford.    Why,  does  he  talk  of  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Of  none  but  him ;  and  swears,  he  was 
carried  out,  the  last  time  he  searched  for  him,  in  a  bas 
ket  ;  protests  to  my  husband  he  is  now  here  ;  and  hath 
drawn  him  and  the  rest  of  their  company  from  their 
sport,  to  make  another  experiment  of  his  suspicion  : 
but  I  am  glad  the  knight  is  not  here ;  now  he  shall  see 
his  own  foolery. 

Mrs.  Ford.    How  near  is  he,  mistress  Page  ? 

/  '       o 

Mrs.  Page.  Hard  by ;  at  street  end ;  he  will  be 
here  anon. 

Mrs.  Ford.    I  am  undone  ! — the  knight  is  here. 

o 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  then  you  are  utterly  shamed,  and 
he's  but  a  dead  man.  What  a  woman  are  you? — 
Away  with  him,  away  with  him,  better  shame  than 
murder. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Which  way  should  he  go  ?  how  should 
I  bestow  him?  Shall  I  put  him  into  the  basket  again? 

Re-enter  FALSTAFF. 

Fal.    No,  I'll  come  no  more  i'  the  basket :  May 
not  go  out,  ere  he  come  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas,  three  of  master  Ford's  brothers 
watch  the  door  with  pistols,1  that  none  shall  issue  out ; 
otherwise  you  might  slip  away  ere  he  came.  But 
what  make  you  here  ? 

Fal.  What  shall  I  do? — I'll  creep  up  into  the 
chimney. 

Mrs.  Ford.  There  they  always  used  to  discharge 
their  birding-pieces :  Creep  into  the  kiln-hole. 

Fal.    Where  is  it  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.  He  will  seek  there,  on  my  word. 
Neither  press,  coffer,  chest,  trunk,  well,  vault,  but  he 
hath  an  abstract ~  for  the  remembrance  of  such  places, 

1  This  is  one  of  Shakspeare's  anachronisms :  he  has  also  introduced 
pistols  in  Pericles,  in  the  reign  of  Antiochus,  two  hundred  years  before 
Christ. 

2  i.  e.  a  list,  an  inventory,  or  short  note  of. 


220  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV. 

and  goes  to  them  by  his  note :  There  is  no  hiding  you 
in  the  house. 

Fal.    I'll  go  out,  then. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  you  go  out  in  your  own  semblance, 
you  die,  Sir  John.  Unless  you  go  out  disguised, — 

Mrs.  Ford.    How  might  we  disguise  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Alas  the  day,  I  know  not.  There  is 
no  woman's  gown  big  enough  for  him ;  otherwise,  he 
might  put  on  a  hat,  a  muffler,  and  a  kerchief,  and  so 
escape. 

Fal.  Good  hearts,  devise  something  :  any  extremity, 
rather  than  a  mischief. 

Mrs.  Ford.  My  maid's  aunt,  the  fat  woman  of 
Brentford,  has  a  gown  above. 

Mrs.  Page.  On  my  word,  it  will  serve  him ;  she's 
as  big  as  he  is ;  and  there's  her  thrumed  hat,1  and  her 
muffler  too  :  Run  up,  Sir  John. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  go,  sweet  Sir  John  :  mistress  Page 
and  I  will  look  some  linen  for  your  head. 

Mrs.  Page.  Quick,  quick;  we'll  come  dress  you 
straight :  put  on  the  gown  the  while. 

[Exit  FALSTAFF. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I  would  my  husband  would  meet  him 
in  this  shape  :  he  cannot  abide  the  old  woman  of  Brent 
ford  ;  he  swears  she's  a  witch ;  forbade  her  my  house, 
and  hath  threatened  to  beat  her. 

Mrs.  Page.  Heaven  guide  him  to  thy  husband's 
cudgel ;  and  the  devil  guide  his  cudgel  afterwards  ! 

Mrs.  Ford.    But  is  my  husband  coming  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Ay,  in  good  sadness,  is  lie ;  and  talks 
of  the  basket  too,  howsoever  he  hath  had  intelligence. 

Mrs.  Ford.  We'll  try  that ;  for  111  appoint  my  men 
lo  carry  the  basket  again,  to  meet  him  at  the  door  with 
it,  as  they  did  last  time. 

Mrs.  Page.  Nay,  but  he'll  be  here  presently :  let's 
go  dress  him  like  the  witch  of  Brentford.2 

1  A  hat  composed  of  the  weaver's  tufts  or  thrums,  or  of  very  coarse 
cloth.     A  muffler  was  a  part  of  female  attire  which  only  covered  the  lower 
part  of  the  face. 

2  This  old  witch  Jyl  or  Gillian  of  Brentford  seems  to  have  been  a  char 
acter  well  known  in  popular  story  at  the  time. 


SC.  II.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  221 

Mrs.  Ford.    I'll  first  direct  my  men,  what  thev  shall 

do  with  the  basket.     Go  up ;  I'll  bring  linen  for  him 

straight.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Page.    Hang  him,  dishonest  varlet !  we  cannot 

misuse  him  enough. 

We'll  leave  a  proof,  by  that  which  we  will  do, 
Wives  may  be  merry,  and  yet  honest  too : 
We  do  not  act  that  often  jest  and  laugh ; 
'Tis  old  but  true,  Still  sivine  eat  all  the  draff. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  MRS.  FORD,  with  two  Servants. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Go,  sirs,  take  the  basket  again  on  your 
shoulders  ;  your  master  is  hard  at  door ;  if  he  bid  you 
set  it  down,  obey  him  ;  quickly,  despatch.  [Exit. 

1  Serv.    Come,  come,  take  it  up. 

2  Serv.    Pray  heaven,  it  be  not  full  of  the  knight 
again. 

1  Serv.    I  hope  not ;  I  had  as  lief  bear  so  much  lead. 

Enter  FORD,  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  CAIUS,  and  SIR  HUGH 

EVANS. 

Ford.  Ay,  but  if  it  prove  true,  master  Page,  have 
you  any  way  then  to  unfool  me  again  ? — Set  down  the 

basket,  villain  : — Somebody  call  my  wife  : You, 

youth  in  a  basket,  come  out  here  ! — O,  you  panderly 
rascals !  there's  a  knot,  a  ging,1  a  pack,  a  conspiracy 
against  me:  Now,  shall  the  devil  be  shamed.  What! 
wife,  I  say !  come,  come  forth ;  behold  what  honest 
clothes  you  send  forth  to  bleaching. 

Page.  Why,  this  passes ! 2  Master  Ford,  you  are 
not  to  go  loose  any  longer ;  you  must  be  pinioned. 

Eva.  Why,  this  is  lunatics  !  this  is  mad  as  a  mad  dog  ! 

Shal.    Indeed,  master  Ford,  this  is  not  well ;  indeed. 

Re-enter  MRS.  FORD. 

Ford.  So  say  I  too,  sir. — Come  hither,  mistress 
Ford ;  mistress  Ford,  the  honest  woman,  the  modest 

1  Gang.  3  Surpasses,  or  goes  beyond  all  bounds. 


222  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV. 

wife,  the  virtuous  creature,  that  hath  the  jealous  fool 
to  her  husband ! — I  suspect  without  cause,  mistress, 
do  I? 

Mrs.  Ford.  Heaven  be  my  witness,  you  do,  if  you 
suspect  me  in  any  dishonesty. 

Ford.  Well  said,  brazen-face ;  hold  it  out. 

Come  forth,  sirrah.  [Pulls  the  clothes  out  of  the  basket. 

Page.    This  passes ! 

Mrs.  Ford.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  let  the  clothes 
alone. 

Ford.    I  shall  find  you  anon. 

Eva.  'Tis  unreasonable !  Will  you  take  up  your 
wife's  clothes  ?  Come  away. 

Ford.    Empty  the  basket,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Why,  man,  why, 

Ford.  Master  Page,  as  I  am  a  man,  there  was  one 
conveyed  out  of  my  house  yesterday  in  this  basket : 
Why  may  not  he  be  there  again  ?  In  my  house  I  am 
sure  he  is :  my  intelligence  is  true ;  my  jealousy  is 
reasonable  :  Pluck  me  out  all  the  linen. 

Mrs.  Ford.  If  you  find  a  man  there,  he  shall  die  a 
flea's  death. 

Page.    Here's  no  man. 

Shal.  By  my  fidelity,  this  is  not  well,  master  Ford ; 
this  wrongs  you.1 

Eva.  Master  Ford,  you  must  pray,  and  not  follow7 
the  imaginations  of  your  own  heart :  this  is  jealousies. 

Ford.    Well,  he's  not  here  I  seek  for. 

Page.    No,  nor  no  where  else,  but  in  your  brain. 

Ford.  Help  to  search  my  house  this  one  time ; 
if  I  find  not  what  I  seek,  show  no  color  for  my  ex 
tremity,  let  me  forever  be  your  table-sport ;  let  them 
say  of  me,  As  jealous  as  Ford,  that  searched  a  hollow 
walnut  for  his  wife's  leman.2  Satisfy  me  once  more  ; 
once  more  search  with  me. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  hoa,  mistress  Page !  come  you 
and  the  old  woman  down ;  my  husband  will  come  into 
the  chamber. 

1  i.  e.  This  is  unworthy  of  you.  2  Lover. 


SC.  II.]  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  223 

Ford.    Old  woman  !  What  old  woman  is  that  ? 

Mrs,  Ford.   Why,  it  is  my  maid's  aunt  of  Brentford 

Ford.  A  witch,  a  quean,  an  old  cozening  quean ! 
Have  I  not  forbid  her  my  house  ?  She  comes  of  er 
rands,  does  she  ?  We  are  simple  men ;  we  do  not 
know  what's  brought  to  pass  under  the  profession  of 
fortune-telling.  She  works  by  charms,  by  spells,  by 
the  figure,  and  such  daubery 1  as  this  is ;  beyond  our 

element ;  we  know  nothing. Come  down,  you 

witch,  you  hag,  you ;  come  down,  I  say. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  good,  sweet  husband ; — good  gen 
tlemen,  let  him  not  strike  the  old  woman. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  in  ivomen's  clothes,  led  hij  Mrs.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come,  mother  Pratt,  come,  give  me 
your  hand. 

Ford.    I'll  prat  her  : Out  of  my  door,  you  witch  ! 

[beats  him']  you  rag,  you  baggage,  you  polecat,  you 
ronyon ! 2  out !  out !  I'll  conjure  you,  I'll  fortune-tell 
you.  [Exit  FALSTAFF. 

Mrs.  Page.  Are  you  not  ashamed  ?  I  think  you 
have  killed  the  poor  woman. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  he  will  do  it : — 'Tis  a  goodly 
credit  for  you. 

Ford.    Hang  her,  witch  ! 

Eva.  By  yea  and  no,  I  think,  the  'oman  is  a  witch 
indeed :  I  like  not  when  a  'oman  has  a  great  peard  ;  I 
spy  a  great  peard  under  her  muffler. 

Ford.  Will  you  follow,  gentlemen  ?  I  beseech  you, 
follow;  see  but  the  issue  of  my  jealousy;  if  I  cry  out 
thus  upon  no  trail,3  never  trust  me  when  I  open  again. 

Page.  Let's  obey  his  humor  a  little  further  :  Come, 
gentlemen. 

[Exeunt  PAGE,  FORD,  SHALLOW,  and  EVANS. 

Mrs.  Page.    Trust  me,  he  beat  him  most  pitifully. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Nay,  by  the  mass,  that  he  did  not ;  he 
beat  him  most  unpitifully,  methought. 

1  Falsehood,  imposition. 

2  Means  much  the  same  as  scall  or  scab,  from  rogneusc,  Fr. 

3  Expressions  taken  from  the  chase.     Trail  is  the  scent  left  by  the 
passage  of  the  game.     To  cry  out  is  to  open,  or  bark. 


224  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV. 

Mrs.  Page.  I'll  have  the  cudgel  hallowed,  and  hang 
o'er  the  altar ;  it  hath  done  meritorious  service. 

Mrs.  Ford.  What  think  you  ?  May  we,  with  the 
warrant  of  womanhood,  and  the  witness  of  a  good 
conscience,  pursue  him  with  any  further  revenge  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  The  spirit  of  wantonness  is,  sure,  scared 
out  of  him ;  if  the  devil  have  him  not  in  fee  simple, 
with  fine  and  recovery,  he  will  never,  I  think,  in  the 
way  of  waste,  attempt  us  again. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Shall  we  tell  our  husbands  how  we  have 
served  him  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Yes,  by  all  means  ;  if  it  be  but  to  scrape 
the  figures  out  of  your  husband's  brains.  If  they  can 
find  in  their  hearts,  the  poor  unvirtuous  fat  knight  shall 
be  any  further  afflicted,  we  two  will  still  be  the 
ministers. 

Mrs.  Ford.  I'll  warrant  they'll  have  him  publicly 
shamed :  and,  methinks,  there  would  be  no  period  to 
the  jest,  should  he  not  be  publicly  shamed. 

Mrs.  Page.  Come  to  the  forge  with  it  then  ;  shape 
it :  I  would  not  have  things  cool.  [  Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.  Sir,  the  Germans  desire  to  have  three  of 
your  horses :  the  duke  himself  will  be  to-morrow  at 
court,  and  they  are  going  to  meet  him. 

Host.  What  duke  should  that  be  comes  so  secretly? 
I  hear  not  of  him  in  the  court :  Let  me  speak  with  the 
gentlemen  ;  they  speak  English  ? 

Bard.    Ay,  sir :   I'll  call  them  to  you. 

Host.  They  shall  have  my  horses ;  but  I'll  make 
them  pay,  I'll  sauce  them :  they  have  had  my  house  a 
week  at  command ;  I  have  turned  away  my  other 
guests  :  they  must  come  off ; l  I'll  sauce  them  :  Come. 

[Exeunt. 

l  To  coma  off  is  to  pay,  to  come  down  (as  we  now  say),  with  a  sum  of 
money.  It  is  a  phrase  of  frequent  occurrence  in  old  plays. 


SC.  IV.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR  225 


SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Ford's  House. 

Enter  PAGE,  FORD,  MRS.  PAGE,  MRS.  FORD,  and  SIR 

HUGH  EVANS. 

Eva.  'Tis  one  of  the  pest  discretions  of  a  'oman  as 
ever  I  did  look  upon. 

Page.  And  did  he  send  you  both  these  letters  at  an 
instant  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    Within  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Ford.    Pardon  me,  wife :  Henceforth  do  what  thou 

wilt; 

I  rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  cold,1 
Than  thee  with  wantonness:    now  doth   thy  honor 

stand, 

In  him  that  was  of  late  an  heretic, 
As  firm  as  faith. 

Page.  'Tis  well,  'tis  well ;  no  more. 

Be  not  as  extreme  in  submission 
As  in  offence ; 

But  let  our  plot  go  forward :  let  our  wives 
Yet  once  again,  to  make  us  public  sport, 
Appoint  a  meeting  with  this  old  fat  fellow, 
Where  we  may  take  him,  and  disgrace  him  for  it. 

Ford.  There  is  no  better  way  than  that  they 
spoke  of. 

Page.  How !  to  send  him  word  they'll  meet  him  in 
the  park  at  midnight !  fie,  fie ;  he'll  never  come. 

Eva.  You  say,  he  has  been  thrown  into  the  rivers  ; 
and  has  been  grievously  peaten,  as  an  old  'oman ;  me- 
thinks  there  should  be  terrors  in  him,  that  he  should 
not  come  ;  methinks  his  flesh  is  punished,  he  shall 
have  no  desires. 

Page.    So  think  I  too. 

Mrs.  Ford.    Devise  but  how  you'll  use  him  when 

he  comes, 
And  let  us  two  devise  to  bring  him  thither. 

i  The  reading  in  the  text  was  Mr.  Howe's.    The  old  copies  read,  " 
rather  will  suspect  the  sun  with  gold" 
VOL.  i.  29 


226  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV. 

Mrs.  Page.    There  is  an  old  tale  goes,  that  Herne 

the  hunter, 

Sometime  a  keeper  here  in  Windsor  forest, 
Doth  all  the  winter  time,  at  still  midnight, 
Walk  round  about  an  oak,  with  great  ragg'd  horns ; 
And  there  he  blasts  the  tree,  and  takes1  the  cattle ; 
And    makes    milch-kine   yield    blood,    and    shakes   a 

chain 

In  a  most  hideous  and  dreadful  manner : 
You  have  heard  of  such  a  spirit ;  and  well  you  know 
The  superstitious  idle-headed  eld2 
Received,  and  did  deliver  to  our  age, 
This  tale  of  Herne  the  hunter  for  a  truth. 

Page.    Why,  yet  there  want  not  many,  that  do  fear 
In  deep  of  night  to  \valk  by  this  Herne's  oak ; 3 
But  what  of  this? 

Mrs.  Ford.   Marry,  this  is  our  device  ; 
That  Falstaff  at  that  oak  shall  meet  with  us, 
Disguised  like  Herne,  with  huge  horns  on  his  head. 

Page.    Well,  let  it  not  be  doubted  but  he'll  come, 
And   in    this    shape :    When   you   have    brought  him 

thither, 
What  shall  be  done  with  him  ?  wrhat  is  your  plot  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    That  likewise  have  we  thought  upon, 

and  thus : 

Nan  Page  my  daughter,  and  my  little  son, 
And  three  or  four  more  of  their  growth,  we'll  dress 
Like  urchins,  ouphes,4  and  fairies,  green  and  white, 
With  rounds  of  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads, 
And  rattles  in  their  hands :  upon  a  sudden, 
As  Falstaff,  she,  and  I,  are  newly  met, 
Let  them  from  forth  a  saw-pit  rush  at  once 
With  some  diffused 5  song :  upon  their  sight, 
We  two  in  great  amazedness  will  fly  : 
Then  let  them  all  encircle  him  about, 

1  To  take  signifies  to  seize  or  strike  with  a  disease,  to  blast. 

2  Old  age. 

3  The  tree  which  was  by  tradition  shown  as  Home's  oak,  being  totally 
decayed,  was  cut  down  by  his  late  majesty's  order  in  1795. 

4  Elf,  hobgoblin. 

5  Some  diffused  song  appears  to  mean  some  obscure,  strange  song. 


SC.  IV.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  227 

And,  fairy-like,  to-pinch1  the  unclean  knight; 
And  ask  him,  why,  that  hour  of  fairy  revel, 
In  their  so  sacred  paths  he  dares  to  tread, 
In  shape  profane. 

Mrs.  Ford.  And  till  he  tell  the  truth, 

Let  the  supposed  fairies  pinch  him  sound, 
And  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 

Mrs.  Page.  The  truth  being  known, 

We'll  all  present  ourselves ;  dis-horn  the  spirit, 
And  mock  him  home  to  Windsor. 

Ford.  The  children  must 

Be  practised  well  to  this,  or  they'll  ne'er  do't. 

Eva.  I  will  teach  the  children  their  behaviors ;  and 
I  will  be  like  a  Jack-an-apes  also,  to  burn  the  knight 
with  my  taber. 

Ford.  That  will  be  excellent.  I'll  go  buy  them 
vizards. 

Mrs.  Page.    My  Nan  shall  be  the  queen  of  all  the 

fairies, 
Finely  attired  in  a  robe  of  white. 

Page.    That  silk  will  I  go  buy ; — and  in  that  time 
Shall  master  Slender  steal  my  Nan  away, 
And  marry  her  at  Eton.  [Aside.~\     Go,  send  to  Fal- 
staff  straight. 

Ford.    Nay,  I'll  to  him  again  in  name  of  Brook  : 
He'll  tell  me  all  his  purpose :  Sure,  he'll  come. 

Mrs.  Page.    Fear  not  you  that:  Go,  get  us  prop 
erties,2 
And  tricking  for  our  fairies. 

Eva.  Let  us  about  it:  It  is  admirable  pleasures, 
and  fery  honest  knaveries. 

[Exeunt  PAGE,  FORD,  and  EVANS. 
,  Mrs.  Page.    Go,  mistress  Ford, 
Send  quickly  to  Sir  John,  to  know  his  mind. 

[Exit  MRS.  FORD. 


1  To-pinch :  to  has  here  an  augmentative  sense,  as  be  has  since  had : 
all  was  generally  prefixed ;  Spenser  has  all  to-torn,  all  to-rent,  &c.,  and 
Milton  in  Comus  all  to-ruffled. 

2  Properties  are  little  incidental  necessaries  to  a  theatre :  tricking  is 
dress  or  ornament 


228  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV 

I'll  to  the  doctor ;  he  hath  my  good  will, 
And  none  but  he,  to  marry  with  Nan  Page. 
That  Slender,  though  well  landed,  is  an  idiot ; 
And  he  my  husband  best  of  all  affects  : 
The  doctor  is  well  moneyed,  and  his  friends 
Potent  at  court :  he,  none  but  he,  shall  have  her, 
Though  twenty  thousand  worthier  come  to  crave  her. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  V.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  SIMPLE. 

Host.  What  would'st  thou  have,  boor  ?  what,  thick- 
skin  ?  speak,  breathe,  discuss  ;  brief,  short,  quick,  snap. 

Sim.  Marry,  sir,  I  come  to  speak  with  Sir  John 
Falstaff  from  master  Slender. 

Host.  There's  his  chamber,  his  house,  his  castle, 
his  standing-bed,  and  truckle-bed ;  'tis  painted  about 
with  the  story  of  the  prodigal,  fresh  and  new :  Go, 
knock  and  call ;  he'll  speak  like  an  Anthropophaginian 1 
unto  thee  :  Knock,  I  say. 

Sim.  There's  an  old  woman,  a  fat  woman,  gone  up 
into  his  chamber ;  I'll  be  so  bold  as  stay,  sir,  till  she 
come  down :  I  come  to  speak  with  her,  indeed. 

Host.  Ha !  a  fat  woman !  the  knight  may  be 
robbed:  I'll  call.— Bully  knight !  Bully  Sir  John! 
speak  from  thy  lungs  military :  Art  thou  there  ?  it  is 
thine  host,  thine  Ephesian,  calls. 

Fed.  [Above.']    How  now,  mine  host  ? 

Host.  Here's  a  Bohemian-Tartar  tarries  the  coming 
down  of  thy  fat  woman :  Let  her  descend,  bully,  let 
her  descend ;  my  chambers  are  honorable  :  Fie  !  pri 
vacy  ?  fie ! 

Enter  FAL STAFF. 

Fal.  There  was,  mine  host,  an  old  fat  woman  even 
now  with  me  ;  but  she's  gone. 

1  i.  e.  a  cannibal :  mine  host  uses  these  fustian  words  to  astonish  Simple. 


SC.  V.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  229 

Sim.  Pray  you,  sir,  was't  not  the  wise  woman  of 
Brentford  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  marry,  was  it,  muscle-shell.1  What  would 
you  with  her  ? 

Sim.  My  master,  sir,  my  master  Slender,  sent  to 
her,  seeing  her  go  through  the  streets,  to  know,  sir, 
whether  one  Nym,  sir,  that  beguiled  him  of  a  chain, 
had  the  chain,  or  no. 

Fal.    I  spake  with  the  old  woman  about  it. 

Sim.    And  what  says  she,  I  pray,  sir  ? 

Fal.  Marry,  she  says,  that  the  very  same  man  that 
beguiled  master  Slender  of  his  chain,  cozened  him  of  it. 

Sim.  I  would  I  could  have  spoken  with  the  woman 
herself;  I  had  other  things  to  have  spoken  with  her 
too,  from  him. 

Fal.   What  are  they  ?  let  us  know. 

Host.    Ay,  come ;  quick. 

Sim.    I  may  not  conceal  them,  sir. 

Fal.    Conceal  them,  or  thou  diest. 

Sim.  Why,  sir,  they  were  nothing  but  about  mis 
tress  Anne  Page  ;  to  know  if  it  were  my  master's  for 
tune  to  have  her,  or  no. 

Fal.    'Tis,  'tis  his  fortune. 

Sim.   What,  sir? 

Fal.  To  have  her, — or  no :  Go ;  say  the  woman 
told  me  so. 

Sim.   May  I  be  so  bold  to  say  so,  sir  ? 

Fal.   Ay,  Sir  Tike  ;  who  more  bold  ? 

Sim.  I  thank  your  worship  :  I  shall  make  my  master 
glad  with  these  tidings.  [Exit  SIMPLE. 

Host.  Thou  art  clerkly,2  thou  art  clerkly,  Sir  John  : 
Was  there  a  wise  woman  with  thee  ? 

Fal.  Ay,  that  there  was,  mine  host ;  one  that  hath 
taught  me  more  wit  than  ever  I  learned  before  in  my 
life  :  and  I  paid  nothing  for  it  neither,  but  was  paid 3  for 
my  learning. 


1  He  calls  poor  Simple  muscle-shell,  because  he  stands  with  his  mouth 
en. 

2  i.  e.  Scholar-like. 

3  To  pay,  in  Shakspeare's  time,  signified  to  beat ;  in  which  sense  it  is 


230  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR  [ACT  IV. 

Enter  BARDOLPH. 

Bard.    Out,  alas,  sir  !  cozenage  !  mere  cozenage  ! 

Host.  Where  be  my  horses  ?  speak  well  of  them, 
varletto. 

Bard.  Run  away  with  the  cozeners :  for  so  soon  as 
1  came  beyond  Eton,  they  threw  me  off,  from  behind 
one  of  them,  in  a  slough  of  mire  ;  and  set  spurs,  and 
away,  like  three  German  devils,  three  Doctor  Faus- 
tuses. 

Host.  They  are  gone  but  to  meet  the  duke,  villain : 
do  not  say  they  be  fled ;  Germans  are  honest  men. 

Enter  SIR  HUGH  EVANS. 

Eva.    Where  is  mine  host  ? 

Host.    What  is  the  matter,  sir  ? 

Eva.  Have  a  care  of  your  entertainments  :  there  is 
a  friend  of  mine  come  to  town,  tells  me,  there  is  three 
cousin  germans,  that  has  cozened  all  the  hosts  of  Read 
ings,  of  Maidenhead,  of  Colebrook,  of  horses  and 
money.  I  tell  you  for  good-will,  look  you :  you  are 
wise,  and  full  of  gibes  and  vlouting-stogs ;  and  it  is 
not  convenient  you  should  be  cozened  :  Fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 

Enter  DOCTOR  CAIUS. 

Cains.    Vcrc  is  mine  Host  de  Jarterre '? 

Host.  Here,  master  doctor,  in  perplexity,  and  doubt 
ful  dilemma. 

Caius.  I  cannot  tell  vat  is  dat :  but  it  is  tell-a  me, 
dat  you  make  grand  preparation  for  a  duke  de  Jar- 
many  :  by  my  trot,  dere  is  no  duke,  dat  the  court  is 
know  to  come  ;  I  tell  you  for  good  vill :  Adieu.  [Exit. 

Host.  Hue  and  cry,  villain,  go  : — assist  me,  knight ; 
I  am  undone  : — fly,  run,  hue  and  cry,  villain !  I  am 
undone  !  [Exeunt  Host  and  BARDOLPH. 

Fal.    I  would  all  the  world  might  be  cozened  ;  for  I 


still  not  uncommon  in  familiar  language :  "  Seven  of  the  eleven  I  paid,1 
says  Falstaff,  in  Henry  IV.  Part  1. 


SC.  V.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  231 

have  been  cozened  and  beaten  too.  If  it  should  come 
to  the  ear  of  the  court,  how  I  have  been  transformed, 
and  how  my  transformation  hath  been  washed  and 
cudgeled,  they  wrould  melt  me  out  of  my  fat,  drop  by 
drop,  and  liquor  fishermen's  boots  with  me  ;  I  warrant 
they  would  whip  me  with  their  fine  wits,  till  I  were  as 
crest-fallen  as  a  dried  pear.  I  never  prospered  since  I 
forswore  myself  at  Primero.1  Well,  if  my  mind  were 
but  long  enough  to  say  my  prayers,  I  would  repent. — 

Enter  MRS.  QUICKLY. 

Now !  whence  come  you  ? 

Quick.    From  the  two  parties,  forsooth. 

Fed.  The  devil  take  one  party,  and  his  dam  the 
other,  and  so  they  shall  be  both  bestowed !  I  have 
suffered  more  for  their  sakes,  more  than  the  villanous 
inconstancy  of  man's  disposition  is  able  to  bear. 

Quick.  And  have  not  they  suffered  ?  Yes,  I  war 
rant,  speciously  one  of  them  ;  mistress  Ford,  good  heart, 
is  beaten  black  and  blue,  that  you  cannot  sec  a  white 
spot  about  her. 

Fal.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  black  and  blue  !  I  was 
beaten  myself  into  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and  I 
was  like  to  be  apprehended  for  the  witch  of  Brentford : 
but  that  my 'admirable  dexterity  of  wit,  my  counter 
feiting  the  action  of  an  old  woman,  delivered  me,  the 
knave  constable  had  set  me  i'  the  stocks,  i'  the  com 
mon  stocks,  for  a  witch. 

Quick.  Sir,  let  me  speak  with  you  in  your  cham 
ber  ;  you  shall  hear  how  things  go ;  and,  1  warrant,  to 
your  content.  Here  is  a  letter  will  say  somewhat. 
Good  hearts,  what  ado  here  is  to  bring  you  together  ! 
Sure,  one  of  you  does  not  serve  heaven  well,  that  you 
are  so  crossed. 

Fal.    Come  up  into  my  chamber.  [Exeunt. 

1  Pnmero  was  tne  fashionable  game  at  cards  in  Shakspeare's  time. 


232  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  IV. 


SCENE  VI.     Another  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  FENTON  and  Host. 

Host.   Master  Fenton,  talk  not  to  me ;  my  mind  is 
heavy,  I  will  give  over  all. 

Pent.    Yet  hear  me  speak :  Assist  me  in  my  purpose, 
And,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I'll  give  thee 
A  hundred  pound  in  gold,  more  than  your  loss. 

Host.    I  will  hear  you,  master  Fenton  ;  and  I  will, 
at  the  least,  keep  your  counsel. 

Pent.    From  time  to  time  I  have  acquainted  you 
With  the  dear  love  I  bear  to  fair  Anne  Page ; 
Who,  mutually,  hath  answered  my  affection 
(So  far  forth  as  herself  might  be  her  chooser) 
Even  to  my  wish :  I  have  a  letter  from  her 
Of  such  contents  as  you  will  wonder  at  ; 
The  mirth  whereof  so  larded  with  my  matter, 
That  neither,  singly,  can  be  manifested, 
Without  the  show  of  both  ; — wherein  fat  Falstaff 
Hath  a  great  scene  :  the  image  of  the  jest 

[Showing  the  letter 

I'll  show  you  here  at  large.     Hark,  good  mine  host : 
To-night  at  Heine's  oak,  just  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
Must  my  sweet  Nan  present  the  fairy  queen ; 
The  purpose  why,  is  here  ; l  in  which  disguise, 
While  other  jests  are  something  rank  on  foot, 
Her  father  hath  commanded  her  to  slip 
Away  with  Slender,  and  with  him  at  Eton 
Immediately  to  marry :  she  hath  consented. 
Now,  sir, 

Her  mother,  even  strong  against  that  match, 
And  firm  for  doctor  Caius,  hath  appointed 
That  he  shall  likewise  shuffle  her  away, 
While  other  sports  are  tasking  of  their  minds, 
And  at  the  deanery,  where  a  priest  attends, 
Straight  marry  her :  to  this  her  mother's  plot 

i  In  the  letter. 


SO.  I.]  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  233 

She,  seemingly  obedient,  likewise  hath 

Made  promise  to  the  doctor. — Now,  thus  it  rests  : — 

Her  father  means  she  shall  be  all  in  white ; 

And  in  that  habit,  when  Slender  sees  his  time 

To  take  her  by  the  hand,  and  bid  her  go, 

She  shall  go  with  him : — her  mother  hath  intended, 

The  better  to  denote  her  to  the  doctor, 

(For  they  must  all  be  masked  and  vizardod,) 

That,  quaint  in  green  she  shall  be  loose  <  nrobed, 

With  ribands  pendant,  flaring  'bout  her  head ; 

And  when  the  doctor  spies  his  vantage  ripe, 

To  pinch  her  by  the  hand,  and,  on  that  token, 

The  maid  hath  given  consent  to  go  with  1  lim. 

Host.   Which   means   she   to    deceive  ?    father,   or 
mother  ? 

Pent.   Both,  my  good  host,  to  go  along  with  me : 
And  here  it  rests, — that  you'll  procure  the  vicar 
To  stay  for  me  at  church,  'twixt  twelve  and  one, 
And,  in  the  lawful  name  of  marrying, 
To  give  our  hearts  united  ceremony. 

Host.   Well,  husband  your  device  ;  I'll  to  the  vicar : 
Bring  you  the  maid,  you  shall  not  lack  a  priest. 

Pent.    So  shall  I  ever  more  be  bound  to  thee ; 
Besides,  I'll  make  a  present  recompense.         [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  1.     A  Room  in  the  Garter  Inn. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  and  MRS.  QUICKLY. 

FaL    Pr'ythee,     no     more     prattling  ; — go. I'll 

hold : 1  This  is  the  third  time ;  I  hope,  good  luck  lies 
in  odd  numbers.  Away,  go ;  they  say,  there  is  divin 
ity  in  odd  numbers,  either  in  nativity,  chance,  or  death. 
— Away. 

1  Keep  to  the  time. 
VOL.  i.  30 


MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  V. 

Quick.  I'll  provide  you  a  chain ;  and  I'll  do  what  J 
can  to  get  you  a  pair  of  horns. 

FaL  Away,  I  say ;  time  wears :  hold  up  your  head 
and  mince.  [Exit  MRS.  QUICKLY. 

Enter  FORD. 

How  now,  master  Brook?  Master  Brook,  the  matter 
will  be  known  to-night,  or  never.  Be  you  in  the  Park 
about  midnight,  at  Herne's  oak,  and  you  shall  see 
wonders. 

Ford.  Went  you  not  to  her  yesterday,  sir,  as  you 
told  me  you  had  appointed  ? 

FaL  I  went  to  her,  master  Brook,  as  you  see,  like 
a  poor  old  man ;  but  I  came  from  her,  master  Brook, 
like  a  poor  old  woman.  That  same  knave,  Ford,  her 
husband,  hath  the  finest  mad  devil  of  jealousy  in  him, 
master  Brook,  that  ever  governed  frenzy.  I  will  tell 
you. — He  beat  me  grievously,  in  the  shape  of  a  wo 
man  ;  for  in  the  shape  of  man,  master  Brook,  I  fear 
not  Goliath  with  a  weaver's  beam ;  because  I  know, 
also,  life  is  a  shuttle.  I  am  in  haste ;  go  along  with 
me ;  I'll  tell  you  all,  master  Brook.  Since  I  plucked 
geese,  played  truant,  and  whipped  top,  I  knew  not 
what  it  was  to  be  beaten,  till  lately.  Follow  me  :  I'll 
tell  you  strange  things  of  this  knave  Ford ;  on  whom 
to-night  I  will  be  revenged,  and  I  will  deliver  his  wife 
into  your  hand. — Follow :  Strange  things  in  hand, 
master  Brook !  follow.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     Windsor  Park. 

Enter  PAGE,  SHALLOW,  and  SLENDER. 

Page.  Come,  come  ;  we'll  couch  i'  the  castle-ditch, 
till  we  see  the  light  of  our  fairies. — Remember,  son 
Slender,  my  daughter. 

Slen.  Ay,  forsooth ;  I  have  spoke  with  her,  and  we 
have  a  nay-word  how  to  know  one  another.  I  come 


SC.  III.]  MERRY  WIVES  OF  WINDSOR.  235 

to  her  in  white,  and  cry,  mum ;  she  cries,  budget ;  and 
by  that  we  know  one  another. 

Shed.  That's  good,  too  :  But  what  needs  either  your 
mum,  or  her  budget  ?  the  white  will  decipher  her  well 
enough. — It  hath  struck  ten  o'clock. 

Page.  The  night  is  dark ;  light  and  spirits  will  be 
come  it  well.  Heaven  prosper  our  sport !  No  man 
means  evil  but  the  devil,1  and  we  shall  know  him  by 
his  horns.  Let's  away ;  follow  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  Street  in  Windsor. 

Enter  MRS.  PAGE,  MRS.  FORD,  and  DR.  CAIUS. 

Mrs.  Page.  Master  doctor,  my  daughter  is  in  green ; 
when  you  see  your  time,  take  her  by  the  hand,  away 
with  her  to  the  deanery,  and  despatch  it  quickly:  Go 
before  into  the  park ;  we  two  must  go  together. 

Caius.    I  know  vat  I  have  to  do  :  Adieu. 

Mrs.  Page.  Fare  you  well,  sir.  [Exit  CAIUS.] 
My  husband  will  not  rejoice  so  much  at  the  abuse  of 
Falstaff,  as  he  will  chafe  at  the  doctor's  marrying  my 
daughter :  but  'tis  no  matter ;  better  a  little  chiding, 
than  a  great  deal  of  heart-break. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Where  is  Nan  now,  and  her  troop  of 
fairies  ?  and  the  Welsh  devil,  Hugh  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  They  are  all  couched  in  a  pit  hard  by 
Herne's  oak,  with  obscured  lights ;  which,  at  the  very 
instant  of  Falstaff 's  and  our  meeting,  they  will  at  once 
display  to  the  night. 

Mrs.  Ford.    That  cannot  choose  but  amaze  him. 

Mrs.  Page.  If  he  be  not  amazed,  he  will  be  mocked  ; 
if  he  be  amazed,  he  will  every  way  be  mocked. 

Mrs.  Ford.    We'll  betray  him  finely. 

Mrs.  Page.  Against  such  lewdsters,  and  their  lechery, 
Those  that  betray  them  do  no  treachery. 

Mrs.  Ford.  The  hour  draws  on  :  To  the  oak,  to  the 
oak !  [Exeunt. 

1  Page  indirectly  alludes  to  Falstaff,  who  was  to  have  horns  on  his  head. 


236  MERRY   WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  V. 


SCENE  IV.     Windsor  Park. 


Enter  SIR  HUGH  EVANS  and  Fairies. 

Eva.  Trib,  trib,  fairies  ;  come  ;  and  remember  your 
parts :  be  pold,  I  pray  you ;  follow  me  into  the  pit ; 
and  when  I  give  the  watch'ords,  do  as  I  pid  you  : 
Come,  come  ;  trib,  trib.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.     Another  Part  of  the  Park. 

Enter  FALSTAFF  disguised,  with  a  buck's  head  on. 

Fed.  The  Windsor  bell  hath  struck  twelve ;  the 
minute  draws  on :  Now,  the  hot-blooded  gods  assist 
me : — Remember,  Jove,  thou  wast  a  bull  for  thy  Eu- 
ropa ;  love  set  on  thy  horns — O  powerful  love  !  that, 
in  some  respects,  makes  a  beast  a  man  ;  in  some  other, 
a  man  a  beast. — You  were  also,  Jupiter,  a  swan,  for 
the  love  of  Leda ; — O — omnipotent  love  !  how  near  the 
god  drew  to  the  complexion  of  a  goose  ! — A  fault  done 
first  in  the  form  of  a  beast ; — O  Jove,  a  beastly  fault ! 
and  then  another  fault  in  the  semblance  of  a  fowl ; 
think  on't,  Jove ;  a  foul  fault. — When  gods  have  hot 
backs,  what  shall  poor  men  do  ?  For  me,  I  am  here  a 
Windsor  stag ;  and  the  fattest,  I  think,  i'  the  forest : 
send  me  a  cool  rut-time,  Jove,  or  who  can  blame  me 
to  piss  my  tallow  ?  Who  comes  here  ?  my  doe  ? 


Enter  MRS.  FORD  and  MRS.  PAGE. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John  ?  art  thou  there,  my  deer?  my 
male  deer  ? 

Fal.  My  doe  with  the  black  scut  ? — Let  the  sky 
rain  potatoes ;  let  it  thunder  to  the  tune  of  Green 
Sleeves ;  hail  kissing-comfits,  and  snow  eringoes ;  let 


SC.  V.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  237 

there  come  a  tempest  of  provocation,1  I  will  shelter  me 
here.  [Embracing  her. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Mistress  Page  is  come  with  me,  sweet 
heart. 

Fal.  Divide  me  like  a  bribe-buck,2  each  a  haunch : 
I  will  keep  my  sides  to  myself,  my  shoulders  for  the 
fellow 3  of  this  walk,  and  my  horns  I  bequeath  your 
husbands.  Am  I  a  woodman  ? 4  ha !  Speak  I  like 
Herne  the  hunter  ? — Why,  now  is  Cupid  a  child  of 
conscience ;  he  makes  restitution.  As  I  am  a  true 
spirit,  welcome  !  [Noise  within. 

Mrs.  Page.    Alas  !  What  noise  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.    Heaven  forgive  our  sins  ! 

Fal.   What  should  this  be  ? 

Mrs.  Ford.     ] 

Mrs.  Page.    I 

Fal.  I  think,  the  devil  will  not  have  me  damned, 
lest  the  oil  that  is  in  me  should  set,  hell  on  fire ;  he 
would  never  else  cross  me  thus. 

Enter  SIR  HUGH  EVANS,  like  a  satyr ;  MRS.  QUICKLY, 
and  PISTOL;  ANNE  PAGE,  as  the  Fairy  Queen,  at 
tended  by  her  brother  and  others,  dressed  like  fairies, 
with  waxen  tapers  on  their  heads. 

Quick.    Fairies,  black,  gray,  green,  and  white, 
You  moonshine  revellers,  and  shades  of  night, 
You  orphan-heirs 5  of  fixed  destiny, 

Attend  your  office,  and  your  quality. 

Crier  Hobgoblin,  make  the  fairy  o-yes. 

1  The  sweet  potato  was  used  in  England  as  a  delicacy  loner  before  the 
introduction  of  the  common  potato  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  158(1.  It 
was  imported  in  considerable  quantities  from  Spain  and  the  Canaries,  and 
was  supposed  to  possess  the  pnvver  of  restoring  decayed  vigor.  The  kiss- 
ing-comfits  were  principally  made  of  these  and  eringo  roots,  and  were 
perfumed  to  make  the  breath  sweet.  Gerarde  attributes  the  same  virtues 
to  the  common  potato,  Avhich  he  distinguishes  as  the  Virginian  sort. 

-  i.  e.  like  a  buck  sent  as  a  bribe. 

3  The  keeper.     The  shoulders  of  the  buck  were  among  his  perquisites. 

4  The  woodman  was  an  attendant  on  the  forester.     It  is  here,  however, 
used  in  a  wanton  sense,  for  one  who  chooses  female  game  for  the  object 
of  his  pursuit. 

5  The  old  copy  reads  orphan-heirs.     Warburton  reads  ouphen. 


238  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  V. 

Pist.    Elves,  list  jour  names  ;  silence,  you  airy  toys. 
Cricket,  to  Windsor  chimneys  shalt  thou  leap : 
Where  fires  thou  find'st  unraked,  and  hearths  unswept, 
There  pinch  the  maids  as  blue  as  bilberry : 
Our  radiant  queen  hates  sluts,  and  sluttery. 

FaL    They  are    fairies ;    he    that    speaks    to    them 

shall  die : 
I'll  wink  and  couch :  No  man  their  works  must  eye. 

[Lies  doiun  upon  his  face, 
Eva.    Where's   Pede  ? — Go   you,    and   where    you 

find  a  maid, 

That,  ere  she  sleep,  has  thrice  her  prayers  said, 
Raise  up  the  organs  of  her  fantasy, 
Sleep  she  as  sound  as  careless  infancy ; 
But  those  as  sleep,  and  think  not  on  their  sins. 
Pinch  them,  arms,  legs,  backs,  shoulders,  sides,  and 

shins. 

Quick.    About,  about ; 

Search  Windsor  castle,  elves,  within  and  out : 
StreAV  good  luck,  ouphes,  on  every  sacred  room ; 
That  it  may  stand  till  the  perpetual  doom, 
In  state  as  wholesome,  as  in  state  'tis  fit ; 
Worthy  the  owner,  and  the  owner  it. 
The  several  chairs  of  order  look  you  scour 
With  juice  of  balm,  and  every  precious  flower  : l 
Each  fair  instalment,  coat,  and  several  crest, 
With  loyal  blazon,  evermore  be  blest ! 
And  nightly,  meadow-fairies,  look  you  sing, 
Like  to  the  Garter's  compass,  in  a  ring : 
The  expressure  that  it  bears,  green  let  it  be. 
More  fertile-fresh  than  all  the  field  to  see ; 
And  Hony  soit  qui  mal  y  pense  write, 
In  emerald  tufts,  flowers  purple,  blue  and  white  ; 
Like  sapphire,  pearl,  and  rich  embroidery,  } 

Buckled  below  fair  knighthood's  bending  knee  ;  > 
Fairies  use  flowers  for  their  characterv.2  S 


1  It  was  an  article  of  ancient  luxury  to  rub  tables,  &c.  with  aromatic 
herbs.     Pliny  informs  us  that  the  Romans  did  so  to  drive  away  evil  spirits. 

2  "  Character;/  is  a  writing  by  characters,  or  by  strange  marks." — Bid- 
lokar's  English  Expositor,  12mo.  1G5G. 


SC.  V.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  239 

Away ;  disperse  :  But,  till  'tis  one  o'clock, 
Our  dance  of  custom,  round  about  the  oak 
Of  Herne  the  hunter,  let  us  not  forget. 

Eva.    Pray  you,  lock  hand  in  hand ;  yourselves  in 

order  set : 

And  twenty  glow-worms  shall  our  lanterns  be, 
To  guide  our  measure  round  about  the  tree. 
But,  stay ;  I  smell  a  man  of  middle  earth. 

Fal.    Heaven  defend  me  from  that  Welsh  fairy  !  lest 
he  transform  me  to  a  piece  of  cheese ! 

Pist.    Vile  worm,  thou  wast  o'erlooked 1  even  in  thy 
birth. 

Quick.    With  trial  fire  touch  me  his  finger-end : 
If  he  be  chaste,  the  flame  will  back  descend, 
And  turn  him  to  no  pain ;  but  if  he  start, 
It  is  the  flesh  of  a  corrupted  heart. 

Pist.    A  trial,  come. 

Eva.    Come,  will  this  wood  take  fire  ? 

[They  burn  him  with  their  tapers. 

Fal.    Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Quick.    Corrupt,  corrupt,  and  tainted  in  desire ! 
About  him,  fairies  ;  sing  a  scornful  rhyme  ; 
And,  as  you  trip,  still  pinch  him  to  your  time. 

Eva.    It  is  right ;  indeed  he  is  full  of  lecheries  and 
iniquity. 

SONG. 

Fie  on  sinful  fantasy  ! 
Fie  on  lust  and  luxury  ! 
Lust  is  but  a  bloody  fire, 
Kindled  with  unchaste  desire. 
Fed  in  heart;  whose  flames  aspire, 
As  thoughts  do  blow  them,  higher  and  higher. 
Pinch  him,  fairies,  mutually ; 
Pinch  him  for  his  villany ; 
Pinch  him,  and  burn  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Till  candles,  and  starlight,  and  moonshine  be  out. 

1  By  overlooked  is  here  meant  bewitched  by  an  evil  eye. 


240  MERRY  WIVES   OF   WINDSOR.  [ACT  V 

During  this  song,  the  fairies  pinch  Falstaff.  Doctor 
Caius  comes  one  way,  and  steals  away  a  fairy  in 
green ;  Slender  another  way,  and  takes  off  a  fairy  in 
white ;  and  Fenton  comes,  and  steals  away  Mrs. 
Anne  Page.  A  noise  of  hunting  is  made  within. 
All  the  fairies  run  away.  Falstaff  pulls  off  his  buck's 
head,  and  rises. 

Enter  PAGE,  FORD,   MRS.    PAGE,   and  MRS.   FORD. 
They  lay  hold  on  him. 

Page.   Nay,  do  not  fly :  I  think  we  have  watched 

you  now ; 
Will  none  but  Hcrne  the  hunter  serve  your  turn  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    I  pray  you,  come  ;  hold  up  the  jest  no 

higher : — 

Now,  good  Sir  John,  how  like  you  Windsor  wives  ? 
See  you  these,  husband  ?  do  not  these  fair  yokes * 
Become  the  forest  better  than  the  town  ? 

Ford.  Now,  sir,  who's  a  cuckold  now  ? — Master 
Brook,  Falstaff 's  a  knave,  a  cuckoldy  knave ;  here  are 
his  horns,  master  Brook :  And,  master  Brook,  he  hath 
enjoyed  nothing  of  Ford's  but  his  buck-basket,  his 
cudgel,  and  twenty  pounds  of  money,  which  must  be 
paid  to  master  Brook ;  his  horses  are  arrested  for  it, 
master  Brook. 

Mrs.  Ford.  Sir  John,  we  have  had  ill  luck ;  we  could 
never  meet.  I  will  never  take  you  for  my  love  again, 
but  I  will  always  count  you  my  deer. 

Fal.    I  do  begin  to  perceive  that  I  am  made  an  ass. 

Ford.  Ay,  and  an  ox  too ;  both  the  proofs  are 
extant. 

Fal.  And  these  are  not  fairies  ?  I  was  three  or  four 
times  in  the  thought,  they  were  not  fairies :  and  yet 
the  guiltiness  of  my  mind,  the  sudden  surprise  of  my 
powers,  drove  the  grossness  of  the  foppery  into  a  re 
ceived  belief,  in  despite  of  the  teeth  of  all  rhyme  and 
reason,  that  they  were  fairies.  See  now,  how  wit 


1  The  extremities  of  yokes  for  oxen,  as  still  used  in  several  counties  of 
England,  bend  upwards,  and,  rising  very  high,  in  shape  resemble  horns. 


SC.  V.]  MERRY   WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  241 

may  be  made  a  Jack-a-lent,  when  'tis  upon  ill  em 
ployment  ! 

Eva.  Sir  John  Falstaff,  serve  Got,  and  leave  your 
desires,  and  fairies  will  not  pinse  you. 

Ford.    Well  said,  fairy  Hugh. 

Eva.  And  leave  you  your  jealousies  too,  I  pray 
you. 

Ford.  I  will  never  mistrust  my  wife  again,  till  thou 
art  able  to  woo  her  in  good  English. 

Fal.  Have  I  laid  my  brain  in  the  sun,  and  dried  it, 
that  it  wants  matter  to  prevent  so  gross  o'erreaching 
as  this  ?  Am  I  ridden  with  a  Welsh  goat  too  ?  Shall 
I  have  a  coxcomb  of  frize  ?  *  'tis  time  I  were  choked 
with  a  piece  of  toasted  cheese. 

Eva.  Seese  is  not  good  to  give  putter ;  your  pelly 
is  all  putter. 

Fal.  Seese  and  putter !  Have  I  lived  to  stand  at 
the  taunt  of  one  that  makes  fritters  of  English  ?  This 
is  enough  to  be  the  decay  of  lust  and  late  walking 
through  the  realm. 

Mrs.  Page.  Why,  Sir  John,  do  you  think,  though 
wre  would  have  thrust  virtue  out  of  our  hearts  by  the 
head  and  shoulders,  and  have  given  ourselves  without 
scruple  to  hell,  that  ever  the  devil  could  have  made  you 
our  delight  ? 

Ford.    What,  a  hodge-pudding  ?  a  bag  of  flax  ? 

Mrs.  Page.    A  puffed  man  ? 

Page.  Old,  cold,  withered,  and  of  intolerable  en 
trails  ? 

Ford.    And  one  that  is  as  slanderous  as  Satan  ? 

Page.    And  as  poor  as  Job  ? 

Ford.    And  as  wicked  as  his  wife  ? 

Eva.  And  given  to  fornications  and  to  taverns, 
and  sack  and  wine,  and  metheglins,  and  to  drinkings, 
and  swearings  and  starings,  pribbles  and  prabbles  ? 

Fal.  Well,  I  am  your  theme  ;  you  have  the  start  of 
me ;  I  am  dejected ;  I  am  not  able  to  answer  the 


1  i.  e.  a  fool's  cap  made  out  of  Welsh  materials.     Wales  was  famous 
for  this  cloth. 

VOL.    I.  31 


242  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  V. 

Welsh  flannel;1    ignorance  itself  is  a  plummet  o'er 
me  : 2  use  me  as  you  will. 

Ford.  Marry,  sir,  we'll  bring  you  to  Windsor,  to 
one  master  Brook,  that  you  have  cozened  of  money,  to 
whom  you  should  have  been  a  pander :  over  and  above 
that  you  have  suffered,  I  think,  to  repay  that  money 
will  be  a  biting  affliction. 

Mrs.  Ford.   Nay,    husband,   let   that   go   to    make 

amends ; 
Forgive  that  sum,  and  so  we'll  all  be  friends. 

Ford.    Well,  here's  my  hand ;  all's  forgiven  at  last. 

Page.  Yet  be  cheerful,  knight:  thou  shalt  eat  a 
posset  to-night  at  my  house ;  where  I  will  desire  thee 
to  laugh  at  my  wife,  that  now  laughs  at  thee : 3  Tell 
her,  master  Slender  hath  married  her  daughter. 

Mrs.  Page.  Doctors  doubt  that :  If  Anne  Page  be 
my  daughter,  she  is,  by  this,  doctor  Caius's  wife. 

[Aside. 

Enter  SLENDER. 

Slen.   Whoo !  ho !  ho !  father  Page. 

Page.  Son !  how  now  ?  how  now,  son  ?  have  you 
despatched  ? 

Slen.  Despatched ! — I'll  make  the  best  in  Glouces 
tershire  know  on't ;  wrould  I  were  hanged,  la,  else. 


Page.    Of  what,  son  ? 

Slen.  I  came  yonder  at  Eton  to  marry  mistress 
Anne  Page,  and  she's  a  great  lubberly  boy.  If  it  had 
not  been  i'  the  church,  I  would  have  swinged  him,  or 
he  should  have  swinged  me.  If  I  did  not  think  it 

o 

had  been  Anne  Page,  would  I  might  never  stir ;  and 
'tis  a  post-master's  boy. 

Page.    Upon  my  life,  then,  you  took  the  wrong. 

Slen.  What  need  you  tell  me  that  ?  I  think  so,  when 
I  took  a  boy  for  a  girl :  If  I  had  been  married  to  him, 

1  The  very  wordjlannel  is  derived  from  a  Welsh  one,  and  it  is  almost 
unnecessary  to  add  that  it  was  originally  the  manufacture  of  Wales. 

2  Ignorance  itself  weighs  me  down  and  oppresses  me. 

3  Dr.  Johnson  remarks,  that  the  tAvo  plots  are  excellently  connected, 
and  the  transition  very  artfully  made  in  this  speech. 


SC    V.]  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  243 

for  all  he  was  in  woman's  apparel,  I  would  not  have 
had  him. 

Page.  Why,  this  is  your  own  folly.  Did  not  I  tell 
you  how  you  should  know  my  daughter  by  her  gar 
ments  ? 

Slen.  1  went  to  her  in  white,  and  cried  mum,  and 
she  cried  budget,  as  Anne  and  I  had  appointed ;  and 
yet  it  was  not  Anne,  but  a  post-master's  boy. 

Eva.  Jeshu !  Master  Slender,  cannot  you  see  but 
marry  boys  ? 

Page.    O,  I  am  vexed  at  heart :  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Good  George,  be  not  angry :  I  knew 
of  your  purpose  ;  turned  my  daughter  into  green  ;  and, 
indeed,  she  is  now  with  the  doctor  at  the  deanery,  and 
there  married. 

Enter  CAIUS. 

Caius.  Vere  is  mistress  Page  ?  By  gar,  I  am 
cozened  :  I  ha'  married  mi  garcon,  a  boy ;  un  paisan, 
by  gar,  a  boy ;  it  is  not  Anne  Page :  by  gar,  I  am 
cozened. 

Mrs.  Page.   Why,  did  you  take  her  in  green  ? 

Caius.  Ay,  be  gar,  and  'tis  a  boy ;  be  gar,  I'll  raise 
all  Windsor.  [Exit  CAIUS. 

Ford.  This  is  strange !  Who  hath  got  the  right 
Anne  ? 

Page.  My  heart  misgives  me :  Here  comes  master 
Fen  ton. 

Enter  FENTON  and  ANNE  PAGE. 

How  now,  master  Fenton  ? 

Anne.  Pardon,  good  father !  good  my  mother, 
pardon ! 

Page.  Now,  mistress  ?  how  chance  you  went  not 
with  master  Slender  ? 

Mrs.  Page.  Why  went  you  not  with  master  doctor, 
maid  ? 

Pent.    You  do  amaze  *  her  :  Hear  the  truth  of  it. 

1  Confound  her  by  your  questions. 


244  MERRY  WIVES   OF  WINDSOR.  [ACT  V. 

You  would  have  married  her  most  shamefully, 

Where  there  was  no  proportion  held  in  love. 

The  truth  is,  she  and  I,  long  since  contracted. 

Are  now  so  sure  that  nothing  can  dissolve  us. 

The  offence  is  holy  that  she  hath  committed : 

And  this  deceit  loses  the  name  of  craft, 

Of  disobedience,  or  undutious  title  ; 

Since  therein  she  doth  evitate l  and  shun 

A  thousand  irreligious  cursed  hours, 

Which  forced  marriage  would  have  brought  upon  her. 

Ford.  Stand  not  amazed  :  here  is  no  remedy  : — 
In  love,  the  heavens  themselves  do  guide  the  state ; 
Money  buys  lands,  and  wives  are  sold  by  fate. 

FaL    I  am  glad,  though  you  have  ta'en  a  special 
stand  to  strike  at  rne,  that  your  arrow  hath  glanced. 

Page.    Well,  what  remedy?     Fenton,  heaven  give 

thee  joy ! 
What  cannot  be  eschewed,  must  be  embraced. 

FaL   When  night-dogs  run,   all   sorts   of  deer  are 
chased.2 

Eva.    I  will  dance  and  eat  plums  at  your  wedding. 

Mrs.  Page.    Well,  I  will  muse  no  further : — Master 

Fenton, 

Heaven  give  you  many,  many  merry  days ! 
Good  husband,  let  us  every  one  go  home, 
And  laugh  this  sport  o'er  by  a  country  fire ; 
Sir  John  and  all. 

Ford.  Let  it  be  so  : — Sir  John, 

To  master  Brook  you  yet  shall  hold  your  word  ; 
For  he  to-night  shall  lie  with  mistress  Ford.     [Exeunt 

1  Avoid. 

2  Young  and  old,  does  as  well  as  bucks.     He  alludes  to  Fenton's  hav 
ing  run  down  Anne  Page. 


245 


OF  this  play  there  is  a  tradition  preserved  by  Mr.  Rowe,  that  it  was 
written  at  the  command  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  was  so  delighted  with 
the  character  of  Falstaff,  that  she  wished  it  to  be  diffused  through  more 
plays,  but,  suspecting  that  it  might  pall  by  continued  uniformity,  directed 
the  poet  to  diversify  his  manner,  by  showing  him  in  love.  No  task  is 
harder  than  that  of  writing  to  the  ideas  of  another.  Shakspeare  knew 
what  the  queen,  if  the  story  be  true,  seems  not  to  have  known,  that  by 
any  real  passion  of  tenderness,  the  selfish  craft,  the  careless  jollity,  and  the 
lazy  luxury  of  Falstaff  must  have  suffered  so  much  abatement,  that  little 
of  his  former  cast  would  have  remained.  Falstaff  could  not  love,  but  by 
ceasing  to  be  Falstaff.  He  could  only  counterfeit  love,  and  his  profes 
sions  could  be  prompted,  not  by  the  hope  of  pleasure,  but  of  money. 
Thus  the  poet  approached  as  near  as  he  could  to  the  work  enjoined  him ; 
yet,  having,  perhaps,  in  the  former  plays,  completed  his  own  idea,  seems 
not  to  have  been  able  to  give  Falstaff  all  his  former  power  of  entertainment. 

This  comedy  is  remarkable  for  the  variety  and  number  of  the  person 
ages,  who  exhibit  more  characters,  appropriated  and  discriminated,  than, 
perhaps,  can  be  found  in  any  other  play. 

Whether  Shakspeare  was  the  first  that  produced  upon  the  English 
stage  the  effect  of  language  distorted  and  depraved  by  provincial  or  for 
eign  pronunciation,  I  cannot  certainly  decide.*  This  mode  of  forming 
ridiculous  characters  can  confer  praise  only  on  him  who  originally  dis 
covered  it,  for  it  requires  not  much  of  either  wit  or  judgment ;  its  success 
must  be  derived  almost  wholly  from  the  player,  but  its  power  in  a  skilful 
mouth  even  he  that  despises  it  is  unable  to  resist. 

The  conduct  of  this  drama  is  deficient ;  the  action  begins  and  ends 
often  before  the  conclusion,  and  the  different  parts  might  change  places 
without  inconvenience ;  but  its  general  power — that  power  by  which  all 
works  of  genius  shall  finally  be  tried — is  such,  that  perhaps  it  never  yet 
had  reader  or  spectator  who  did  not  think  it  too  soon  at  the  end. 

JOHNSON. 

*  In  The  Three  Ladies  of  London,  1584,  is  the  character  of  an  Italian  merchant  very  strong 
ly  marked  by  foreign  pronunciation.  Dr.  Dodypoll,  in  the  comedy  of  that  name,  is,  like  Cains, 
a  French  physician.  This  piece  appeared  at  least  a  year  before  The  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor.  The  hero  of  it  speaks  such  another  jargon  as  the  antagonist  of  Sir  Hugh,  and 
like  him  is  cheated  of  his  mistress.  In  several  other  pieces,  more  ancient  than  the  earliest 
of  Shakspeare's,  provincial  characters  are  introduced.  In  the  old  play  of  Henry  V.,  French 
soldiers  are  introduced  speaking  broken  English.  STEEVENS. 


246 


THE  PASTORAL,  BY  CH.  MARLOWE, 
Referred  to  Act  iii.  Sc.  1,  of  the  foregoing  Play. 

COME,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains,  yield. 
There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks. 
By  shallow  rivers,  by  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals — 
There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle ; 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  the  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 
A  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come,  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 
Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat, 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  thy  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 
The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight,  each  May  morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 


247 


TWELFTH    NIGHT; 

OR, 

WHAT  YOU   WILL. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

THE  plot  of  this  admirable  comedy  appears  to  have  been  taken  from 
the  second  tale  in  a  collection  by  Barnabe  Riche,  entitled,  "  Rich  his 
Farewell  to  the  Militarie  Profession,"  which  was  first  printed  in  1583.  It 
is  probably  borrowed  from  Les  Histoires  Tragiques  de  Belleforest,  vol.  iv. 
Hist  viime.  Belleforest,  as  usual,  copied  Bandello.  In  the  fifth  eglog  of 
Barnaby  Googe,  published  with  his  poems  in  1563,  an  incident  somewhat 
similar  to  that  of  the  duke  sending  his  page  to  plead  his  cause  with  the 
lady,  and  the  lady  falling  in  love  with  the  page,  may  be  found.  But 
Rich's  narration  is  the  more  probable  source,  and  resembles  the  plot  more 
completely.  It  is  too  long  for  insertion  here,  but  may  be  found  in  the 
late  edition  of  Malone's  Shakspeare,  by  Mr.  Boswell. 

The  comic  scenes  appear  to  have  been  entirely  the  creation  of  the  poet, 
and  they  are  worthy  of  his  transcendent  genius.  It  is  indeed  one  of  the 
most  delightful  of  Shakspeare's  comedies.  Dr.  Johnson  thought  the  nat 
ural  fatuity  of  Ague-cheek  hardly  fair  game ;  but  the  good-nature  with 
which  his  folly  and  his  pretensions  are  brought  forward  for  our  amuse 
ment,  by  humoring  his  whims,  are  almost  without  a  spice  of  satire.  It  is 
rather  an  attempt  to  give  pleasure  by  exhibiting  an  exaggerated  picture 
of  his  foibles,  than  a  wish  to  give  pain  by  exposing  their  absurdity. 


243 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

ORSINO,  Duke  of  Illyria. 

SEBASTIAN,  a  young  Gentleman,  Brother  to  Viola. 
ANTONIO,  a  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Sebastian. 
A  Sea  Captain,  Friend  to  Viola. 

C  ARioNTINE'  1  Gentlemen  attending  on  the  Duke. 
SIR  TOBY  BELCH,  Uncle  of  Olivia. 
SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 
MALVOLIO,  Steward  to  Olivia. 

Olivia. 


OLIVIA,  a  rich  Countess. 
VIOLA,  in  love  with  the  Duke. 
MARIA,  Olivia's  Woman. 

Lords,  Priests,  Sailors,  Officers,  Musicians,  and  other  Attendants. 
SCENE.     A  City  in  Illyria,  and  the  Sea-coast  near  it. 


249 


TWELFTH   NIGHT; 


WHAT    YOU   WILL. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.     An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  DUKE,   CURIO,   Lords ;    Musicians  attending. 

Duke.    If  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on  ; 
Give  me  excess  of  it ;  that,  surfeiting, 

The  appetite  may  sicken,  and  so  die. 

That  strain  again  ; — it  had  a  dying  fall : 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south,1 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing,  and  giving  odor. — Enough  ;  no  more  ; 
'Tis  not  so  sweet  now  as  it  was  before. 
O  spirit  of  love,  how  quick  and  fresh  art  thou ! 
That,  notwithstanding  thy  capacity 
Receiveth  as  the  sea,  nought  enters  there. 
Of  what  validity 2  and  pitch  soever, 
But  falls  into  abatement  and  low  price, 
Even  in  a  minute  !  so  full  of  shapes  is  fancy, 
That  it  alone  is  high-fantastical.3 

Cur.    Will  you  go  hunt,  my  lord  ? 

Duke.  What,  Curio  ? 

1  The  old  copies  read  sound:  the  emendation  is  Pope's.     Howe  had 
changed  it  to  wind.    In  Sidney's  Arcadia,  1590,  we  have — "more  sweet 
than  a  gentle  south-west  wind,  which  comes  creeping  overjlowery  fields." 

2  Value. 

3  Fantastical  to  the  height.     This  is  the  usual  reading ;  but  may  it  not 
have  been  originally  written,  "flight  (i.  e.  called)  fantastical"? 

VOL.  i.  32 


250  TWELFTH   NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  I. 

Cur.  The  hart. 

Duke.    Why,  so  I  do,  the  noblest  that  I  have  : 
O,  when  mine  eyes  did  see  Olivia  first, 
Methought  she  purged  the  air  of  pestilence ; 
That  instant  was  I  turned  into  a  hart ; 
And  my  desires,  like  fell  and  cruel  hounds, 
E'er  since  pursue  me. — How  nowr  ?  what  news  from 
her  ? 

Enter  VALENTINE. 

Val.    So  please  my  lord,  I  might  not  he  admitted, 
But  from  her  handmaid  do  return  this  answer : 
The  element  itself,  till  seven  years  heat,1 
Shall  not  behold  her  face  at  ample  view; 
But,  like  a  cloistress,  she  will  veiled  walk, 
And  water  once  a  day  her  chamber  round 
With  eye-offending  brine  :  all  this,  to  season 
A  brother's  dead  love,  which  she  would  keep  fresh, 
And  lasting,  in  her  sad  remembrance. 

Duke.    O,  she  that  hath  a  heart  of  that  fine  frame, 
To  pay  this  debt  of  love  but  to  a  brother, 
How  W7ill  she  love,  when  the  rich  golden  shaft  ' 
Hath  killed  the  flock2  of  all  affections  else 
That  live  in  her  !  when  liver,  brain,  and  heart, 
These  sovereign  thrones,  are  all  supplied,  and  filled 
(Her  sweet  perfections)  with  one  self3  king ! — 
Away  before  me  to  sweet  beds  of  flowers  ; 
Love-thoughts  lie  rich,  when  canopied  with  bowers. 

[Exeunt, 

SCENE  II.     The  Sea-coast. 

Enter  VIOLA,  Captain,  and  Sailors. 

Vio.    What  country,  friends,  is  this  ? 

Cap.  Illyria,  lady. 

Vio.    And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria  ? 

1  This  passage  is  obscure :  perhaps  the  meaning  is,  seven  summers. 

2  So  in  Sidneys  Arcadia — "the^oc/c  of  unspeakable  virtues." 

3  Self  king  signifies  self-same  king. 


SC.  II.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  251 

My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

Perchance    he    is    not    drowned : — What    think    you, 
sailors  ? 

Cap.    It  is  perchance  that  you  yourself  were  saved. 

Vio.    O  my  poor  brother !    and  so,  perchance,  may 
he  be. 

Cap.    True,    madam :     and,    to    comfort   you    with 

chance, 

Assure  yourself,  after  our  ship  did  split, 
When  you,  and  that  poor  number  saved  with  you, 
Hung  on  our  driving  boat,  I  saw  your  brother, 
Most  provident  in  peril,  bind  himself 
(Courage  and  hope  both  teaching  him  the  practice) 
To  a  strong  mast,  that  lived  upon  the  sea ; 
Where,  like  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back, 
I  saw  him  hold  acquaintance  with  the  waves, 
So  long  as  1  could  see. 

Vio.  For  saying  so,  there's  gold : 

Mine  ow7n  escape  unfoldeth  to  my  hope, 
Whereto  thy  speech  serves  for  authority, 
The  like  of  him.  Know'st  thou  this  country  ? 

Cap.    Ay,  madam,  well ;  for  I  was  bred  and  born 
Not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  very  place. 

Vio.    Who  governs  here  ? 

Cap.  A  noble  duke,  in  nature, 

As  in  his  name. 

Vio.  What  is  his  name  ? 

Cap.  Orsino. 

Vio.    Orsino  !   I  have  heard  my  father  name  him  : 
He  was  a  bachelor  then. 

Cap.  And  so  is  now, 

Or  was  so  very  late  :  for  but  a  month 
Ago  I  went  from  hence ;  and  then  'twas  fresh 
In  murmur  (as  you  know,  what  great  ones  do, 
The  less  will  prattle  of,)  that  he  did  seek 
The  love  of  fair  Olivia. 

Vio.  What's  she  ? 

Cap.    A  virtuous  maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count 
That  died  some  twelvemonth  since  ;  then  leaving  her 
In  the  protection  of  his  son,  her  brother, 


252  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  1. 

Who  shortly  also  died  :  for  whose  dear  love 
They  say  she  hath  abjured  the  company 
And  sight  of  men. 

Vio.  O  that  I  served  that  lady ; 

And  might  not  he  delivered  to  the  world, 
Till  I  had  made  mine  own  occasion  mellow, 
What  my  estate  is  ! l 

Cap.  That  were  hard  to  compass; 

Because  she  will  admit  no  kind  of  suit, 
No,  not  the  duke's. 

Vio.    There  is  a  fair  behavior  in  thee,  captain  ; 
And  though  that  nature  with  a  beauteous  wall 
Doth  oft  close  in  pollution,  yet  of  thee 
I  will  believe,  thou  hast  a  mind  that  suits 
With  this  thy  fair  and  outward  character. 
I  pray  thee,  and  I'll  pay  thee  bounteously, 
Conceal  me  what  I  am;  and  be  my  aid 
For  such  disguise  as,  haply,  shall  become 
The  form  of  my  intent.     I'll  serve  this  duke  ; 
Thou  shalt  present  me  as  an  eunuch  to  him;2 
It  may  be  worth  thy  pains ;  for  I  can  sing, 
And  speak  to  him  in  many  sorts  of  music, 
That  will  allow3  me  very  worth  his  service.  \ 

What  else  may  hap,  to  time  I  will  commit ; 
Only  shape  thou  thy  silence  to  my  wit. 

Cap.    Be  you  his  eunuch,  and  jour  mute  I'll  be  : 
When  my  tongue  blabs,  then  let  mine  eyes  not  see  ! 

Vio.    1  thank  thee  :  Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt. 

1  i.  e.  "I  AA'ish  I  might  not  be  made  'public  to  the  world,  with  regard  to 
the  state  of  my  birth  and  fortune,  till  I  have  gained  a  ripe  opportunity  for 
my  design."     Johnson  remarks  that  "  Viola  seems  to  have  formed  a  "deep 
design  Avith  very  little  premeditation."     In  the  novel  upon  Avhich  the  play 
is  founded,  the  duke  being  driven  upon  the  isle  of  Cyprus,  by  a  tempest, 
Silla,  the  daughter  of  the  governor,  falls  in  love  Avith  him,  and  on  his  de 
parture  goes  in  pursuit  of  him.     All  this  Shakspeare  kneAv,  and  probably 
intended  to  tell  in  some  future  scene,  but  afterwards  forgot  it.     Viola,  in 
Act  ii.  Sc.  4,  plainly  alludes  to  her  having  been  secretly  in  love  Avith  the 
duke  ;  but  it  would  have  been  inconsistent  Avith  her  delicacy  to  have  made 
an  open  confession  of  it  to  the  captain. 

2  This  plan  of  Viola's  Avas  not  pursued,  as  it  would  have  been  incon 
sistent  with  the  plot  of  the  play.     She  was  presented  as  a  page. 

3  Approve. 


SC.  III.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  253 


SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Sm  TOBY  BELCH  and  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  What  a  plague  means  my  niece,  to  take 
the  death  of  her  brother  thus  ?  I'm  sure,  care's  an 
enemy  to  life. 

Mar.  By  my  troth,  Sir  Toby,  you  must  come  in 
earlier  o'nights ;  your  cousin,  my  lady,  takes  great  ex 
ceptions  to  your  ill  hours. 

Sir  To.    Why,  let  her  except  before  excepted.1 

Mar.  Ay,  but  you  must  confine  yourself  within  the 
modest  limits  of  order. 

Sir  To.  Confine  ?  I'll  confine  myself  no  finer  than 
I  am :  these  clothes  are  good  enough  to  drink  in,  and 
so  be  these  boots  too  ;  an  they  be  not,  let  them  hang 
themselves  in  their  own  straps. 

Mar.  That  quaffing  and  drinking  will  undo  you  :  I 
heard  my  lady  talk  of  it  yesterday ;  and  of  a  foolish 
knight,  that  you  brought  in  one  night  here,  to  be  her 
wooer. 

Sir  To.    Who  ?     Sir  Andrew  Ague-cheek  ? 

Mar.    Ay,  he. 

Sir  To.    He's  as  tall  a  man  as  any's  in  Illyria. 

Mar.    What's  that  to  the  purpose? 

Sir  To.    Why,  he  lias  three  thousand  ducats  a  year. 

Mar.  Ay,  but  he'll  have  but  a  year  in  all  these 
ducats ;  he's  a  very  fool  and  a  prodigal. 

Sir  To.  Fie,  that  you'll  say  so!  he  plays  o'  the 
viol-de-gambo,  and  speaks  three  or  four  languages  word 
for  word  without  book,  and  hath  all  the  good  gifts  of 
nature. 

Mar.  He  hath,  indeed, — almost  natural :  for,  be 
sides  that  he's  a  fool,  he's  a  great  quarreller ;  and,  but 
that  he  hath  the  gift  of  a  coward  to  allay  the  gust  he 
hath  in  quarrelling,  'tis  thought  among  the  prudent,  he 
would  quickly  have  the  gift  of  a  grave. 

1  A  ludicrous  use  of  a  formal  law  phrase. 


254  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  I. 

Sir  To.  By  this  hand,  they  are  scoundrels,  and  sub 
tracters,  that  say  so  of  him.  Who  are  they? 

Mar.  They  that  add  moreover,  he's  drunk  nightly  in 
your  company. 

Sir  To.  With  drinking  healths  to  my  niece ;  I'll 
drink  to  her  as  long  as  there  is  a  passage  in  my  throat, 
and  drink  in  Illyria :  He's  a  coward,  and  a  coystril,1 
that  will  not  drink  to  my  niece,  till  his  brains  turn  o' 
the  toe  like  a  parish-top.2  What,  wench  ?  Castiliano 
volto  ; 3  for  here  comes  Sir  Andrew  Ague-face. 

Enter  SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir  And.    Sir  Toby  Belch!  how  now,  Sir  Toby  Belch? 

Sir  To.    Sweet  Sir  Andrew  ! 

Sir  And.    Bless  you,  fair  shrew. 

Mar.    And  you  too,  sir. 

Sir  To.    Accost,  Sir  Andrew,  accost. 

Sir  And.    What's  that  ? 

Sir  To.    My  niece's  chamber-maid. 

Sir  And.  Good  mistress  Accost,  I  desire  better  ac 
quaintance. 

Mar.    My  name  is  Mary,  sir. 

Sir  And.    Good  mistress  Mary  Accost, 

Sir  To.  You  mistake,  knight:  accost  is,  front  her, 
board  her,  woo  her,  assail  her. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  I  would  not  undertake  her 
in  this  company.  Is  that  the  meaning  of  accost  ? 

Mar.    Fare  you  well,  gentlemen. 

Sir  To.  An  thou  let  part  so,  Sir  Andrew,  'would 
thou  might'st  never  draw  sword  again. 

Sir  And.  An  you  part  so,  mistress,  I  would  I  might 
never  draw  sword  again.  Fair  lady,  do  you  think  you 
have  fools  in  hand  ? 


1  A  coystril  is  a  low,  mean,  or  worthless  felloAv. 

2  A  large  top  was  formerly  kept  in  every  village,  to  be  whipped  in 
frosty  weather,  that  the  peasants  might  he  kept  warm  by  exercise,  and 
out  of  mischief  when  they  could  not  work.     "To  sleep  like  a  town-top" 
is  a  proverbial  expression. 

3  The  old  copy  reads  Castiliano  vulgo*    Warburton  proposed  reading 
Castiliano  volto.     In  English,  Put  on  your  Castilian  countenance,  i.  e. 
"  grave,  serious  looks." 


SC.  111.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  255 

Mar.    Sir,  I  have  not  you  by  the  hand. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  but  you  shall  have  ;  and  here's  my 
hand. 

Mar.  Now,  sir,  thought  is  free  :  I  pray  you,  bring 
your  hand  to  the  buttery-bar,  and  let  it  drink. 

Sir  And.  Wherefore,  sweetheart  ?  what's  your 
metaphor  ? 

Mar.    It's  dry,  sir. 

Sir  And.  Why,  I  think  so ;  I  am  not  such  an  ass, 
but  I  can  keep  my  hand  dry.  But  what's  your  jest  ? 

Mar.    A  dry  jest,  sir. 

Sir  And.    Are  you  full  of  them  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  sir ;  I  have  them  at  my  fingers'  ends : 
marry,  now  I  let  go  your  hand,  I  am  barren. 

[Exit  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  O  knight,  thou  lack'st  a  cup  of  canary : 
When  did  I  see  thee  so  put  down  ? 

Sir  And.  Never  in  your  life,  I  think  ;  unless  you  see 
canary  put  me  down  :  Methinks,  sometimes  I  have 
no  more  wit  than  a  Christian,  or  an  ordinary  man  has; 
but  I  am  a  great  eater  of  beef,  and,  I  believe,  that  does 
harm  to  my  wit. 

Sir  To.    No  question. 

Sir  And.  An  I  thought  that,  I'd  forswear  it.  I'll 
ride  home  to-morrow,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.    Pourquoy,  my  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  What  is  pourquoy  ?  do  or  not  do  ?  I 
would  I  had  bestowed  that  time  in  the  tongues,  that 
I  have  in  fencing,  dancing,  and  bear-baiting :  O,  had 
I  but  followed  the  arts ! 

Sir  To.  Then  liadst  thou  had  an  excellent  head 
of  hair. 

Sir  And.    Why,  would  that  have  mended  my  hair? 

Sir  To.  Past  question ;  for  thou  seest  it  will  not 
curl  by  nature. 

Sir  And.  But  it  becomes  me  well  enough,  does't 
not  ? 

Sir  To.  Excellent ;  it  hangs  like  flax  on  a  distaff; 
and  I  hope  to  see  a  housewife  take  thee  between  her 
legs  and  spin  it  off. 


256  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  I. 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  I'll  home  to-morrow.  Sir  Toby: 
your  niece  will  not  be  seen ;  or,  if  she  be,  it's  four  to 
one  she'll  none  of  me :  the  count  himself,  here  hard 
by,  wrooes  her. 

Sir  To.  She'll  none  o'  the  count;  she'll  not 
match  above  her  degree,  neither  in  estate,  years,  nor 
wit ;  1  have  heard  her  swear  it.  Tut,  there's  life 
in't,  man. 

Sir  And.  I'll  stay  a  month  longer.  I  am  a  fellow 
o'  the  strangest  mind  i'  the  world ;  I  delight  in 
masques  and  revels  sometimes  altogether. 

Sir  To.    Art  thou  good  at  these  kickshaws,  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  As  any  man  in  Illyria,  whatsoever  he  be, 
under  the  degree  of  my  betters  ;  and  yet  I  will  not 
compare  with  an  old  man. 

Sir  To.  What  is  thy  excellence  in  a  galliard, 
knight  ? 

Sir  And.    'Faith,  I  can  cut  a  caper. 

Sir  To.    And  I  can  cut  the  mutton  to't. 

Sir  And.  And,  I  think,  I  have  the  back- trick,  simply 
as  strong  as  any  man  in  Illyria. 

Sir  To.  Wherefore  are  these  things  hid  ?  wherefore 
have  these  gifts  a  curtain  before  them  ?  are  they  like 
to  take  dust,  like  mistress  Mall's  picture  ? 1  why  dost 
thou  not  go  to  church  in  a  galliard,  and  come  home  in 
a  coranto  ?  My  very  walk  should  be  a  jig  ;  I  would 
not  so  much  as  make  water,  but  in  a  sink-a-pace.2  What 
dost  thou  mean  ?  is  it  a  world  to  hide  virtues  in  ?  I  did 
think,  by  the  excellent  constitution  of  thy  leg,  it  W7as 
formed  under  the  star  of  a  galliard. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  'tis  strong,  and  it  does  indifferent  well 
in  a  flame-colored  stock.  Shall  we  set  about  some 
revels? 

Sir  To.  What  shall  we  do  else  ?  were  we  not  born 
under  Taurus  ? 

Sir  And.    Taurus  ?  that's  sides  and  heart. 


1  i.  e.  Mall  Cutpurse,  whose  real  name  was  Mary  Frith,  a  notorious 
profligate  of  that  day. 

2  Cinque-pace,  the  name  of  a  dance,  the  measures  whereof  are  regu 
lated  by  the  number  5,  also  called  a  galliard. 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  257 

Sir  To.  No,  sir  ;  it  is  legs  and  thighs.  Let  me  see 
thee  caper  :  ha  !  higher  :  ha,  ha  ! — excellent ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  VALENTINE,  and  VIOLA  in  man's  attire. 

Vol.  If  the  duke  continue  these  favors  towards 
you,  Cesario,  you  are  like  to  be  much  advanced  ;  he 
hath  known  you  but  three  days,  and  already  you  are 
no  stranger. 

Vio.  You  either  fear  his  humor,  or  my  negligence, 
that  you  call  in  question  the  continuance  of  his  love  : 
Is  he  inconstant,  sir,  in  his  favors  ? 

Vol.   No,  believe  me. 

Enter  DUKE,  CURIO,  and  Attendants. 

Vio.    I  thank  you. — Here  comes  the  count. 

Duke.    Who  saw  Cesario,  ho  ? 

Vio.    On  your  attendance,  my  lord  ;  here. 

Duke.    Stand  you  awhile  aloof. — Cesario, 
Thou  knowest  no  less  but  all ;   I  have  unclasped 
To  thee  the  book  even  of  my  secret  soul  : 
Therefore,  good  youth,  address  thy  gait 1  unto  her ; 
Be  not  denied  access,  stand  at  her  doors, 
And  tell  them,  there  thy  fixed  foot  shall  grow, 
Till  thou  have  audience. 

Vio.  Sure,  my  noble  lord, 

If  she  be  so  abandoned  to  her  sorrow 
As  it  is  spoke,  she  never  will  admit  me. 

Duke.   Be  clamorous,  and  leap  all  civil  bounds, 
Rather  than  make  tmprofited  return. 

Vio.    Say,  I  do  speak  with  her,  my  lord  ;  what  then  ? 

Duke.    O,  then  unfold  the  passion  of  my  love, 
Surprise  her  with  discourse  of  my  dear  faith : 
It  shall  become  thee  well  to  act  my  woes  ; 


1  Go  thy  way. 
VOL.  i.  33 


258  TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  1. 

She  will  attend  it  better  in  thy  youth, 
Than  in  a  nuncio  of  more  grave  aspect. 

Vio.    \  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Dear  lad,  believe  it , 

For  they  shall  yet  belie  thy  happy  years 
That  say,  thou  art  a  man  :  Diana's  lip 
Is  not  more  smooth  and  rubious ;  thy  small  pipe 
Is  as  the  maiden's  organ,  shrill  and  sound, 
And  all  is  semblative  a  woman's  part. 
I  know  thy  constellation  is  right  apt 
For  this  affair : — Some  four  or  five  attend  him  ; 
All,  if  you  will ;  for  I  myself  am  best, 
When  least  in  company : — Prosper  well  in  this, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  freely  as  thy  lord, 
To  call  his  fortunes  thine. 

Vio.  I'll  do  my  best 

To  woo  your  lady  :  yet  [aside]  a  barful l  strife  ! 
Whoe'er  I  woo,  myself  would  be  his  wife.        [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 


Enter  MARIA  and  Clown.2 

Mar.  Nay,  either  tell  me  where  thou  hast  been,  or 
I  will  not  open  my  lips  so  wide  as  a  bristle  may  enter, 
in  way  of  thy  excuse  :  my  lady  will  hang  thee  for  thy 
absence. 

do.  Let  her  hang  me  :  he  that  is  well  hanged  in 
this  world  needs  to  fear  no  colors. 

Mar.    Make  that  good. 

Clo.    He  shall  see  none  to  fear. 

Mar.  A  good  lentcn 3  answer  :  I  can  tell  thee  where 
that  saying  was  born,  of,  I  fear  no  colors. 

1  A  contest  full  of  impediments. 

2  The  clown  in  this  play  is  a  domestic  fool  in  the  service  of  Olivia. 
He  is  specifically  termed  an  allowed  fool,  and  "JFcs/e,  the  jester  that  the 
lady  Olivia's  father  took  much  delight  in."     Malvolio  speaks  of  him  as 
«  a  sd  fool." 

3  Short  and  spare.     "  Sparing,  niggardly,  insufficient,  like  the  fare  of 
old  times  in  Lent.     Metaphorically,  shorty  laconic" 


't' 


SO.  V.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  259 

Clo.    Where,  good  mistress  Mary? 

Mar.  In  the  wars  ;  and  that  may  you  be  bold  to  say 
in  your  foolery. 

Clo.  Well,  God  give  them  wisdom,  that  have  it; 
and  those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talents. 

Mar.  Yet  you  will  be  hanged  for  being  so  long  ab 
sent  :  or,  to  be  turned  away,  is  not  that  as  good  as  a 
hanging  to  you  ? 

Clo.  Many  a  good  hanging  prevents  a  bad  mar 
riage  ;  and,  for  turning  away,  let  summer  bear  it  out. 

Mar.    You  are  resolute  then? 

Clo.  Not  so  neither ;  but  I  am  resolved  on  two 
points. 

Mar.  That,  if  one  break,1  the  other  will  hold ;  or, 
if  both  break,  your  gaskins  fall. 

Clo.  Apt,  in  good  faith ;  very  apt !  Well,  go  thy 
way :  if  Sir  Toby  would  leave  drinking,  thou  wert  as 
writty  a  piece  of  Eve's  flesh  as  any  in  Illyria. 

Mar.  Peace,  you  rogue ;  no  more  o'  that ;  here  comes 
my  lady :  make  your  excuse  wisely,  you  were  best. 

[Exit. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  MALVOLIO. 

Clo.  Wit,  and't  be  thy  will,  put  me  into  good  fool 
ing  !  Those  wits  that  think  they  have  thee,  do  very 
oft  prove  fools ;  and  I,  that  am  sure  I  lack  thee,  may 
pass  for  a  wise  man :  For  what  says  Quinapalus  ? 

Better  a  witty  fool,  than  a  foolish  wit. God  bless 

thee,  lady ! 

Oli.    Take  the  fool  away. 

Clo.  Do  you  not  hear,  fellows  ?    Take  away  the  lady. 

Oli.  Go  to,  you're  a  dry  fool ;  I'll  no  more  of  you  : 
besides  you  grow  dishonest. 

Clo.  Twro  faults,  madonna,  that  drink  and  good 
counsel  will  amend :  for  give  the  dry  fool  drink,  then 
is  the  fool  not  dry ;  bid  the  dishonest  man  mend  him 
self;  if  he  mend,  he  is  no  longer  dishonest;  if  he  can 
not,  let  the  botcher  mend  him :  Any  thing  that's 

l  Points  were  hooks  which  fastened  the  hose  or  breeches. 


262  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  I. 

OIL    A  gentleman  !  what  gentleman  ? 

Sir  To.  'Tis  a  gentleman  here — A  plague  o'  these 
pickle-herrings  ! — How  now,  sot  ? 

Clo.    Good  Sir  Toby, 

OIL  Cousin,  cousin,  how  have  you  come  so  early 
by  tliis  lethargy  ? 

Sir  To.  Lechery !  I  defy  lechery :  There's  one  at 
the  gate. 

Oli.    Ay,  marry  ;  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  Let  him  be  the  devil,  an  he  will,  I  care 
not :  give1  me  faith,  say  I.  Well,  it's  all  one.  [Exit. 

OIL    What's  a  drunken  man  like,  fool  ? 

Clo.  Like  a  drowned  man,  a  fool,  and  a  madman  . 
one  draught  above  heat  makes  him  a  fool ;  the  second 
mads  him ;  and  a  third  drowns  him. 

OIL  Go  tliou  and  seek  the  coroner,  and  let  him  sit 
o'  my  coz ;  for  he's  in  the  third  degree  of  drink ;  he's 
drowned  ;  go,  look  after  him. 

Clo.  He  is  but  mad  yet,  madonna ;  and  the  fool 
shall  look  to  the  madman.  [Exit  Clown. 

Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  Madam,  yond'  young  fellow  swears  he  will 
speak  to  you.  I  told  him  you  were  sick  ;  he  takes  on 
him  to  understand  so  much,  and  therefore  comes  to 
speak  with  you  :  I  told  him  you  were  asleep  ;  he  seems 
to  have  a  foreknowledge  of  that  too,  and  therefore 
comes  to  speak  with  you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him, 
lady  ?  he's  fortified  against  any  denial. 

OIL    Tell  him,  he  shall  not  speak  with  me. 

Mai.  He  has  been  told  so :  and  he  says,  he'll  stand 
at  your  door  like  a  sheriff's  post,1  and  be  the  supporter 
of  a  bench,  but  he'll  speak  with  you. 

Oli.    What  kind  of  man  is  he  ? 

Mai.    Why,  of  man  kind. 

Oli.    What  manner  of  man  ? 


1  The  sheriffs  formerly  had  painted  posts  set  up  at  their  doors,  on  which 
proclamations,  &c.  were  affixed. 


SC.  V.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  263 

Mai.  Of  very  ill  manner  ;  he'll  speak  with  you,  will 
you  or  no. 

Oil.    Of  what  personage  and  years  is  he  ? 

Mai.  Not  yet  old  enough  for  a  man,  nor  young 
enough  for  a  boy ;  as  a  squash  is  before  'tis  a  peascod, 
or  a  codling 1  when  'tis  almost  an  apple  :  'tis  with  him 
e'en  standing  water,  between  boy  and  man.  He  is 
very  well  favored,  and  he  speaks  very  shrewishly ;  one 
would  think,  his  mother's  milk  were  scarce  out  of  him. 

Oli.    Let  him  approach:  Call  in  my  gentlewoman. 

Mai.    Gentlewoman,  my  lady  calls.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  MARIA. 

Oli.  Give  me  my  veil ;  come,  throw  it  o'er  my  face ; 
We'll  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy. 

Enter  VIOLA. 

Vio.  'The  honorable  lady  of  the  house,  which  is  she  ? 
Oil.    Speak  to  me ;   I  shall  answer  for  her :   Your 


will  ? 


Vio.  Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  unmatchable  beau 
ty, — I  pray  you,  tell  me,  if  this  be  the  lady  of  the  house, 
for  I  never  saw  her  :  I  would  be  loath  to  cast  away  my 
speech ;  for,  besides  that  it  is  excellently  well  penned, 
I  have  taken  great  pains  to  con  it.  Good  beauties,  let 
me  sustain  no  scorn ;  I  am  very  comptible,3  even  to 
the  least  sinister  usage. 

Oli.    Whence  come  you,  sir  ? 

Vio.  I  can  say  little  more  than  I  have  studied,  and 
that  question's  out  of  my  part.  Good  gentle  one,  give 
me  modest  assurance,  if  you  be  the  lady  of  the  house, 
that  I  may  proceed  in  my  speech. 

Oli.    Are  you  a  comedian  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  profound  heart :  and  yet,  by  the  very 
fangs  of  malice,  I  swear,  I  am  not  that  I  play.  Are 
you  the  lady  of  the  house  ? 

Oli.    If  I  do  not  usurp  myself,  I  am. 

1  A  codling  is  a  young  raw  apple,  fit  for  nothing  without  dressing,  and 
is  so  named  because  it  is  chiefly  eaten  when  coddled  or  scalded. 

2  Sensitive. 


IT 


264  TWELFTH   NIGHT  j  OR,  [ACT  I. 

Vio.  Most  certain,  if  you  are  she,  you  do  usurp 
yourself;  for  what  is  yours  to  bestow7,  is  not  yours  to 
reserve.  But  this  is  from  my  commission :  I  will  on 
with  my  speech  in  your  praise,  and  then  show  you  the 
heart  of  my  message. 

Oli.  Come  to  what  is  important  in't :  I  forgive  you 
the  praise. 

Vio.  Alas,  1  took  great  pains  to  study  it,  and  'tis 
poetical. 

Oli.  It  is  the  more  like  to  be  feigned  ;  I  pray  you, 
keep  it  in.  I  heard  you  were  saucy  at  my  gates  ;  and 
allowed  your  approach,  rather  to  wonder  at  you  than 
to  hear  you.  If  you  be  not  mad,  be  gone  ;  if  you 
have  reason,  be  brief:  'tis  not  that  time  of  moon  with 
me,  to  make  one  in  so  skipping  a  dialogue. 

Mar.    Will  you  hoist  sail,  sir  ?  here  lies  your  way. 

Vio.  No,  good  swabber :  I  am  to  hull *  here  a  little 
longer. — Some  mollification  for  your  giant,2  sweet 
lady. 

Oli.    Tell  me  your  mind. 

Vio.    I  am  a  messenger. 

Oli.  Sure,  you  have  some  hideous  matter  to  de 
liver,  when  the  courtesy  of  it  is  so  fearful.  Speak  your 
office. 

Vio.  It  alone  concerns  your  ear.  I  bring  no  over 
ture  of  war,  no  taxation  of  homage  ;  I  hold  the  olive  in 
my  hand  :  my  words  are  as  full  of  peace  as  matter. 

Oli.  Yet  you  began  rudely.  What  are  you  ?  what 
would  you  ? 

Vio.  The  rudeness,  that  hath  appeared  in  me,  have 
1  learned  from  my  entertainment.  What  I  am,  and 
what  I  would,  are  as  secret  as  maidenhead :  to  your 
ears,  divinity ;  to  any  other's,  profanation. 

OIL  Give  us  the  place  alone  ;  we  will  hear  this  di 
vinity.  [Exit  MARIA.]  Now,  sir,  what  is  your  text  ? 

Vio.    Most  sweet  lady, 

1  To  hull  means  to  drive  to  and  fro  upon  the  water  without  sails  or 
rudder. 

2  Ladies  in  romance  are  guarded  by  giants.     Viola,  seeing  the  waiting- 
maid  so  eager  to  oppose  her  message,  entreats  Olivia  to  pacify  her  giant. 


SC.  V.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  265 

Oli.  A  comfortable  doctrine,  and  much  may  be  said 
of  it.  Where  lies  your  text  ? 

Vio.    In  Orsino's  bosom. 

OIL    In  his  bosom  ?  In  what  chapter  of  his  bosom  ? 

Vio.  To  ans\ver  by  the  method,  in  the  first  of  his 
heart. 

Oli.  O,  I  have  read  it ;  it  is  heresy.  Have  you  no 
more  to  say  ? 

Vio.    Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Oli.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to 
negotiate  with  my  face  ?  you  are  now  out  of  your  text : 
but  we  will  draw  the  curtain,  and  show  you  the  pic 
ture.  Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  as  I  was,  this  pre 
sents  : 1 — Is't  not  well  done  ?  [Unveiling. 

Vio.    Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

OIL  'Tis  in  grain,  sir;  'twill  endure  wind  and 
weather. 

Vio.    'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,2  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on : 
Lady,  you  are  the  cruel'st  she  alive, 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave. 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

OIL  O,  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hard-hearted ;  1  will 
give  out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty :  It  shall  be  in 
ventoried  ;  and  every  particle  and  utensil  labelled  to 
my  will :  as,  item,  two  lips  indifferent  red ;  item,  two 
gray  eyes,  with  lids  to  them;  item,  one  neck,  one 
chin,  and  so  forth.  Were  you  sent  hither  to  'praise 3 
me  ? 

Vio.    I  see  you  what  you  are  :  you  are  too  proud ; 
But,  if  you  were  the  devil,  you  are  fair. 
My  lord  and  master  loves  you  ;  O,  such  love 
Could  be  but  recompensed,  though  you  were  crowned 
The  nonpareil  of  beauty ! 

Oli.  How  does  he  love  me  ? 


1  The  old  copy  reads,  "  Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  as  I  was  this 
present."    M.  Mason  proposed  to  read,  "Look  you,  sir,  such  as  once  I 
was,  this  presents." 

2  Blended. 

3  i.  e.  appraise. 

VOL.  i.  34 


266  TWELFTH   NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  1. 

Vio.    With  adorations,  with  fertile  tears, 
With  groans  that  thunder  love,  with  sighs  of  fire. 

Oli.    Your  lord  does  know  my  mind ;  I  cannot  love 

him : 

Yet  I  suppose  him  virtuous,  know  him  noble, 
Of  great  estate,  of  fresh  and  stainless  youth  ; 
In  voices  well  divulged,1  free,  learned,  and  valiant, 
And,  in  dimension,  and  the  shape  of  nature, 
A  gracious  person  ;  but  yet  T  cannot  love  him  : 
He  might  have  took  his  answer  long  ago. 

Vio.    If  I  did  love  you  in  my  master's  flame, 
With  such  a  suffering,  such  a  deadly  life, 
In  your  denial  I  would  find  no  sense ; 
I  would  not  understand  it. 

Oli.  Why,  what  would  you  ? 

Vio.   Make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gate, 
And  call  upon  my  soul  within  the  house ; 
Write  loyal  cantons  of  contemned  love, 
And  sing  them  loud  even  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
Holla  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills, 
And  make  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air 
Cry  out,  Olivia !     O,  you  should  not  rest 
Between  the  elements  of  air  and  earth, 
But  you  should  pity  me. 

Oil.    You  might  do  much  :  What  is  your  parentage.'' 

Vio.    Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 
[  am  a  gentleman. 

Oli.  Get  you  to  your  lord  ; 

I  cannot  love  him :  let  him  send  no  more  ; 
Unless,  perchance,  you  come  to  me  again, 
To  tell  me  how  he  takes  it.     Fare  you  well : 
I  thank  you  for  your  pains :  spend  this  for  me. 

Vio.    I  am  no  feed  post,  lady ;  keep  your  purse  ; 
My  master,  not  myself,  lacks  recompense. 
Love  make  his  heart  of  flint,  that  you  shall  love  ; 
And  let  your  fervor,  like  my  master's,  be 
Placed  in  contempt !     Farewell,  fair  cruelty.        [Exit 

Oli.   What  is  your  parentage  ? 

i  Well  spoken  of  by  the  world. 


SC.  V.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  267 

Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well : 

I  am  a  gentleman. — I'll  be  sworn  thou  art; 

Thy  tongue,  thy  face,  thy  limbs,  actions,  and  spirit, 

Do  give  thee  five-fold  blazon. — Not  too  fast: — soft! 

soft ! 

Unless  the  master  were  the  man. — How  now  ? 
Even  so  quickly  may  one  catch  the  plague  ? 
Methinks  I  feel  this  youth's  perfections, 
With  an  invisible  and  subtle  stealth, 
To  creep  in  at  mine  eyes.     Well,  let  it  be. — 
What,  ho,  Malvolio  !— 

Re-enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  Here,  madam,  at  your  service. 

Oli.    Run  after  that  same  peevish  messenger, 
The  county's 1  man  :  he  left  this  ring  behind  him, 
Would  I,  or  not :  tell  him,  I'll  none  of  it. 
Desire  him  not  to  flatter  with  his  lord, 
Nor  hold  him  up  with  hopes !     I  am  not  for  him : 
If  that  the  youth  will  come  this  way  to-morrow, 
I'll  give  him  reasons  for't.     Hie  thee,  Malvolio. 

Mai.    Madam,  I  will.  [Exit. 

Oli.    I  do  I  know  not  what ;  and  fear  to  find 
Mine  eye  too  great  a  flatterer  for  my  mind. 
Fate,  show  thy  force  :  ourselves  we  do  not  owe  ; 2 
What  is  decreed,  must  be  ;  and  be  this  so !  [Exit. 

1  Count 

2  i,  e.  we  are  not  our  own  masters ;  owe  for  own. 


268  TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  II. 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.     The  Sea-coast. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  SEBASTIAN. 

Ant.  Will  you  stay  no  longer  ?  nor  will  you  not, 
that  I  go  with  you  ? 

Seb.  By  your  patience,  no :  my  stars  shine  darkly 
over  me  :  the  malignancy  of  my  fate  might,  perhaps, 
distemper  yours ;  therefore  I  shall  crave  of  you  your 
leave,  that  I  may  bear  my  evils  alone  .  It  were  a  bad 
recompense  for  your  love,  to  lay  any  of  them  on  you. 

Ant.  Let  me  yet  know  of  you,  whither  you  are 
bound. 

Seb.  No,  'sooth,  sir  ;  my  determinate  voyage  is  mere 
extravagancy.  But  I  perceive  in  you  so  excellent  a 
touch  of  modesty,  that  you  W7ill  not  extort  from  rne 
what  I  am  willing  to  keep  in :  therefore  it  charges  me 
in  manners  the  rather  to  express  myself.  You  must 
know  of  me,  then,  Antonio,  my  name  is  Sebastian, 
which  I  called  Rodorigo  :  my  father  was  that  Sebastian 
of  Messaline,1  whom,  I  know,  you  have  heard  of:  he 
left  behind  him  myself,  and  a  sister,  both  born  in  an 
hour.  If  the  heavens  had  been  pleased,  would  we 
had  so  ended !  but  you,  sir,  altered  that ;  for,  some 
hour  before  you  took  me  from  the  breach  of  the  sea, 
was  my  sister  drowned. 

Ant.    Alas,  the  day  ! 

Seb.  A  lady,  sir,  though  it  was  said  she  much  re 
sembled  me,  was  yet  of  many  accounted  beautiful : 
but,  though  I  could  not,  with  such  estimable  wonder,2 
overfar  believe  that,  yet  thus  far  I  will  boldly  publislx 
her :  she  bore  a  rnind  that  envy  could  not  but  call  fair : 
she  is  drowned  already,  sir,  with  salt  water,  though  1 
seem  to  drown  her  remembrance  again  with  more. 

1  Probably  intended  for  Mitylene 

2  i.  e.  esteeming  wonder,  or  wonder  and  esteem. 


SC.  II.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  269 

Ant.    Pardon  me,  sir,  your  bad  entertainment. 

Seb.    O,  good  Antonio,  forgive  me  your  trouble. 

Ant.  If  you  will  not  murder  me  for  my  love,  let  me 
be  your  servant. 

Seb.  If  you  will  not  undo  what  you  have  done,  that 
is,  kill  him  whom  you  have  recovered,  desire  it  not. 
Fare  ye  well  at  once ;  my  bosom  is  full  of  kindness ; 
and  I  am  yet  so  near  the  manners  of  my  mother,  that 
upon  the  least  occasion  more,  mine  eyes  will  tell  tales 
of  me.  I  am  bound  to  the  count  Orsino's  court;  fare 
well.  [Exit. 

Ant.    The  gentleness  of  all  the  gods  go  with  thee  ! 
I  have  many  enemies  in  Orsino's  court, 
Else  would  I  very  shortly  see  thee  there : 
But,  come  what  may,  I  do  adore  thee  so, 
That  danger  shall  seem  sport,  and  I  will  go.        [Exit. 


SCENE  II.     A  Street. 

Enter  VIOLA;  MALVOLIO  folloiving. 

Mai.  Were  not  you  even  now  with  the  countess 
Olivia? 

Vio.  Even  now,  sir ;  on  a  moderate  pace  I  have 
since  arrived  but  hither. 

Mai.  She  returns  this  ring  to  you,  sir ;  you  might 
have  saved  me  my  pains,  to  have  taken  it  away  your 
self.  She  adds  moreover,  that  you  should  put  your 
lord  into  a  desperate  assurance  she  will  none  of  him : 
And  one  thing  more ;  that  you  be  never  so  hardy  to 
come  again  in  his  affairs,  unless  it  be  to  report  your 
lord's  taking  of  this.  Receive  it  so. 

Vio.    She  took  the  ring  of  me  ! — I'll  none  of  it. 

Mai.  Come,  sir,  you  peevishly  threw  it  to  her ;  and 
her  will  is,  it  should  be  so  returned :  if  it  be  worth 
stooping  for,  there  it  lies  in  your  eye  ;  if  not,  be  it  his 
that  finds  it.  [Exit. 

Vio.  I  left  no  ring  with  her :  What  means  this  lady  ? 
Fortune  forbid  my  outside  have  not  charmed  her ! 


270  TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  II. 

She  made  good  view  of  me  ;  indeed  so  much, 

That,  sure,  methought  her  eyes  had  lost  her  tongue, 

For  she  did  speak  in  starts  distractedly. 

She  loves  me,  sure  ;  the  cunning  of  her  passion 

Invites  me  in  this  churlish  messenger. 

None  of  my  lord's  ring !  why,  he  sent  her  none. 

I  am  the  man. — If  it  be  so,  (as  'tis,) 

Poor  lady,  she  were  better  love  a  dream. 

Disguise,  I  see,  thou  art  a  wickedness, 

Wherein  the  pregnant  enemy  does  much. 

How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper-false  1 

In  women's  waxen  hearts  to  set  their  forms ! 

Alas,  our  frailty  is  the  cause,  not  we ; 

For  such  as  we  are  made  of,  such  we  be. 

How  will  this  fadge  ?  My  master  loves  her  dearly ; 

And  I,  poor  monster,  fond  as  much  on  him ; 

And  she,  mistaken,  seems  to  dote  on  me : 

What  will  become  of  this  ?  As  I  am  man, 

My  state  is  desperate  for  my  master's  love ; 

As  I  am  woman,  now  alas  the  day! 

What  thriftless  sighs  shall  poor  Olivia  breathe  ? 

O  time,  thou  must  untangle  this,  not  I ; 

It  is  too  hard  a  knot  for  me  to  untie.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter   SIR   TOBY   BELCH   and   SIR  ANDREW  AGUE- 
CHEEK. 

Sir  To.  Approach,  Sir  Andrew :  not  to  be  abed 
after  midnight,  is  to  be  up  betimes  ;  and  diluculo  sur- 
gere,  thou  know'st, 

Sir  And.  Nay,  by  my  troth,  I  know  not:  but  I 
know  to  be  up  late,  is  to  be  up  late. 

Sir  To.  A  false  conclusion ;  I  hate  it  as  an  unfilled 
can  :  To  be  up  after  midnight,  and  to  go  to  bed  then,  is 
early ;  so  that  to  go  to  bed  after  midnight,  is  to  go  to 

1  How  easy  is  it  for  the  proper  (i.  e.  fair  in  their  appearance)  and  false 
(i.  e.  deceitf  il)  to  make  an  impression  on  the  easy  hearts  of  women' 


SC.  III.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  271 

bed  betimes.  Do  not  our  lives  consist  of  the  four 
elements  ? 

Sir  And.  'Faith,  so  they  say ;  but,  I  think,  it  rather 
consists  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Sir  To.  Thou  art  a  scholar;  let  us  therefore  eat 
and  drink. — Marian,  I  say,  a  stoop  of  wine  ! 

Enter  Clown. 

Sir  And.    Here  comes  the  fool,  i'faith. 

Clo.  How  now,  my  hearts  ?  Did  you  never  see 
the  picture  of  we  three  ? J 

Sir  To.    Welcome,  ass  ;  now  let's  have  a  catch. 

Sir  And.  By  my  troth,  the  fool  has  an  excellent 
breast.2  I  had  rather  than  forty  shillings  I  had  such  a 
leg,  and  so  sweet  a  breath  to  sing,  as  the  fool  has. 
In  sooth,  thou  wast  in  very  gracious  fooling  last  night, 
when  thou  spokest  of  Pigrogromitus,  of  the  Vapians 
passing  the  equinoctial  of  Queubus ;  'twas'  very 
good,  i'faith.  I  sent  thee  sixpence  for  thy  leman : 
Hadst  it? 

Clo.  I  did  impeticos  thy  gratillity;3  for  Malvolio's 
nose  is  no  whipstock  :  My  lady  has  a  white  hand,  and 
the  Myrmidons  are  no  bottle-ale  houses. 

Sir  And.  Excellent !  Why,  this  is  the  best  fooling, 
when  all  is  done.  Now  a  song. 

Sir  To.  Come  on ;  there  is  sixpence  for  you ;  let's 
have  a  song. 

Sir  And.    There's  a  testril  of  me  too  :  if  one  knight 


:ive  a- 


Clo.    Would  you  have  a  love-song,  or  a  song  of  good 
life  ? 

Sir  To.    A  love-song,  a  love-song. 

Sir  And.    Ay,  ay ;  I  care  not  for  good  life. 

1  Alluding  to  an  old  common  sign  representing  two  fools  or  logger 
heads,  under  which  was  inscribed,  "  We  three  loggerheads  be." 

2  i.  e.  Voice.     In  Fiddes's  Life  of  Wolsey,  Append,  p.  128,  "Singing 
men  well-breasted."    The  phrase  is  common  to  all  writers  of  the  Poet's  age. 

3  The  greater  part  of  this  scene,  which  the  commentators  have  en 
deavored  to  explain,  is  mere  fooling,  and  was  hardly  meant  to  be  serious 
ly  understood. 


272  TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  II. 

SONG. 

Clo.    O  mistress  mine,  ivhere  are  you  roaming  ? 
0,  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  : 
Trip  no  farther,  pretty  sweeting; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'*  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

Sir  And.    Excellent  good,  i'faith ! 
Sir  To.    Good,  good. 

Clo.    What  is  love  ?  ''tis  not  hereafter ; 

Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  siveet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

Sir  And.    A  mellifluous  voice,  as  I  am  true  knight. 

Sir  To.    A  contagious  breath. 

Sir  And.   Very  sweet  and  contagious,  i'faith. 

Sir  To.  To  hear  by  the  nose,  it  is  dulcet  in  con 
tagion.  But  shall  we  make  the  welkin  dance  indeed  ? 
Shall  we  rouse  the  night-owl  in  a  catch,  that  will 
draw  three  souls  out  of  one  weaver?1  shall  we  do 
that  ? 

Sir  And.  An  you  love  me,  let's  do't :  I  am  dog  at  a 
catch. 

Clo.    By'r  lady,  sir,  and  some  dogs  will  catch  well. 

Sir  And.  Most  certain :  let  our  catch  be,  Thou 
Jinave. 

Clo.  Hold  thy  peace,  thou  knave,  knight  ?  I  shall 
be  constrained  in't,  to  call  thee  knave,  knight. 

Sir  And.  'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  constrained 
one  to  call  me  knave.  Begin,  fool ;  it  begins,  Hold 
thy  peace? 

1  Shakspeare  represents  weavers  as  much  given  to  harmony  in  his  time. 

2  This  catch  is  to  be  found  in  "Pammelia,  Musicke's  Miscellanie, 
1618.11    The  worftb  u.id  music  are  in  the  Variorum  Shakspeare. 


SC.  III.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  273 

Clo.    I  shall  never  begin,  if  I  hold  my  peace. 
Sir  And.    Good,  i'faith!  Come,  begin. 

[They  sing  a  catch. 


Enter  MARIA. 

Mar.  What  a  caterwauling  do  you  keep  here  !  If 
my  lady  have  not  called  up  her  steward,  Malvolio,  and 
bid  him  turn  you  out  of  doors,  never  trust  me. 

Sir  To.  My  lady's  a  Cataian,1  we  are  politicians ; 
Malvolio's  a  Peg-a-Ramsey,2  and  Three  merry  men  we 
be.  Am  not  I  consanguineous  ?  am  I  not  of  her  blood? 
Tilley-valley,3  lady!  There  dwelt  a  man  in  Babylon, 
lady,  lady!  [Singing. 

Clo.   Beshrewme,  the  knight's  in  admirable  fooling. 

Sir  And.  Ay,  he  does  well  enough,  if  he  be  dis 
posed,  and  so  do  I  too ;  he  does  it  with  a  better  grace, 
but  I  do  it  more  natural. 

Sir  To.    O  the  twelfth  day  of  December, — 

[Singing. 

Mar.    For  the  love  o'  God,  peace. 

Enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  My  masters,  are  you  mad  ?  or  what  are  you  ? 
Have  you  no  wit,  manners,  nor  honesty,  but  to  gabble 
like  tinkers  at  this  time  of  night  ?  Do  you  make  an 
alehouse  of  my  lady's  house,  that  ye  squeak  out  your 
coziers'4  catches  without  any  mitigation  or  remorse  of 
voice  ?  Is  there  no  respect  of  place,  persons,  nor  time, 
in  you  ? 

Sir  To.  We  did  keep  time,  sir,  in  our  catches. 
Sneck  up  !5 

Mai.  Sir  Toby,  I  must  be  round  with  you.  My  lady 
bade  me  tell  you,  that  though  she  harbors  you  as  her 

1  This  word  generally  signified  a  sharper.     Sir  Toby  is  too  drunk  for 
precision,  and  uses  it  merely  as  a  term  of  reproach. 

2  Name  of  an  obscene  old  song. 

}  An  interjection  of  contempt,  equivalent  is  fiddle-faddle. 

4  Cobblers,  or  botchers.     Dr.  Johnson  interprets  it  tailors,  but  erro 
neously. 

5  An  interjection  of  contempt,  signifying,  go  hang  yourself,  or  go  and 
be  hanged. 

VOL.  i.  35 


274  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  II. 

kinsman,  she's  nothing  allied  to  jour  disorders.  If  you 
can  separate  yourself  from  your  misdemeanors,  you 
are  welcome  to  the  house ;  if  not,  an  it  would  please 
you  to  take  leave  of  her,  she  is  very  walling  to  bid  you 
farewell. 

Sir  To.  Farewell,  dear  heart,  since  I  must  needs  be 
gone. 

Mar.    Nay,  good  Sir  Toby. 

Clo.    His  eyes  do  show  his  days  are  almost  done. 

Mai.    Is't  even  so  ? 

Sir  To.   But  I  ivill  never  die 

Clo.    Sir  Toby,  there  you  lie. 

Mai.    This  is  much  credit  to  you. 

Sir  To.    Shall  I  bid  him  go?  [Singing. 

Clo.    What  an  if  you  do? 

Sir  To.    Shall  I  bid  him  go,  and  spare  not  ? 

Clo.    O  no,  no,  no,  no,  you  dare  not. 

Sir  To.  Out  o'  time  ?  sir,  ye  lie. — Art  any  more 
than  a  steward  ?  Dost  thou  think,  because  thou  art 
virtuous,  there  shall  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale  ? 

Clo.  Yes,  by  Saint  Anne ;  and  ginger  shall  be  hot 
i'  the  mouth  too. 

Sir  To.  Thou'rt  i'  the  right. — Go,  sir,  rub  your 
chain1  with  crums : — A  stoop  of  wine,  Maria  ! 

Mai.  Mistress  Mary,  if  you  prized  my  lady's  favor 
at  any  thing  more  than  contempt,  you  would  not  give 
means  for  this  uncivil  rule  ; 2  she  shall  know  of  it,  by 
this  hand.  [Exit. 

Mar.    Go  shake  your  ears. 

Sir  And.  'Twere  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink  when 
a  man's  a  hungry,  to  challenge  him  to  the  field ; 
and  then  to  break  promise  with  him,  and  make  a  fool 
of  him. 

Sir  To.  Do't,  knight;  I'll  write  thee  a  challenge  ; 
or  I'll  deliver  thy  indignation  to  him  by  word  of 
mouth. 

1  Stewards  anciently  wore  a  chain  of  silver  or  gold,  as  a  mark  of  su 
periority,  as  did  other  principal  servants.     Wolsey's  chief  cook  is  de 
scribed  by  Cavendish  as  wearing  "  velvet  or  sattin  with  a  chain  of  gold." 
One  of  the  methods  used  to  clean  gilt  plate  was  rubbing  it  with  crums. 

2  Behavior,  or  conduct. 


SC.  III.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  275 

Mar.  Sweet  Sir  Toby,  be  patient  for  to-night; 
since  the  youth  of  the  count's  was  to-day  with  my 
lady,  she  is  much  out  of  quiet.  For  monsieur  Malvolio, 
let  me  alone  with  him  :  if  I  do  not  gull  him  into  a  nay- 
word,1  and  make  him  a  common  recreation,  do  not 
think  I  have  wit  enough  to  lie  straight  in  my  bed :  I 
know  I  can  do  it. 

Sir  To.  Possess  us,  possess  us ;  tell  us  something 
of  him. 

Mar.    Marry,  sir,  sometimes  he  is  a  kind  of  Puritan. 

Sir  And.  O,  if  I  thought  that,  I'd  beat  him  like 
a  dog. 

Sir  To.  What,  for  being  a  Puritan  ?  thy  exquisite 
reason,  dear  knight  ? 

Sir  And.  I  have  no  exquisite  reason  for't,  but  I 
have  reason  good  enough. 

Mar.  The  devil  a  Puritan  that  he  is,  or  any  thing 
constantly  but  a  time  pleaser;  an  affectioned2  ass, 
that  cons  state  without  book,  and  utters  it  by  great 
swaths :  the  best  persuaded  of  himself,  so  crammed, 
as  he  thinks,  with  excellences,  that  it  is  his  ground  of 
faith,  that  all,  that  look  on  him,  love  him  ;  and  on  that 
vice  in  him  will  my  revenge  find  notable  cause  to 
work. 

Sir  To.    What  wilt  thou  do  ? 

Mar.  I  will  drop  in  his  way  some  obscure  epistles  of 
love  ;  wherein,  by  the  color  of  his  beard,  the  shape  of 
his  leg,  the  manner  of  his  gait,  the  expressure  of  his 
eye,  forehead,  and  complexion,  he  shall  find  himself 
most  feelingly  personated  :  I  can  write  very  like  my 
lady,  your  niece  ;  on  a  forgotten  matter  we  can  hardly 
make  distinction  of  our  hands. 

Sir  To.    Excellent!  I  smell  a  device. 

Sir  And.    I  have't  in  my  nose  too. 

Sir  To.  He  shall  think,  by  the  letters  that  thou 
wilt  drop,  that  they  come  from  my  niece,  and  that  she 
is  in  love  with  him. 

Mar.    My  purpose  is,  indeed,  a  horse  of  that  color. 

1  By-word.  2  Affected. 


276  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  II. 

Sir  And.  And  your  horse  now  would  make  him 
an  ass. 

Mar.    Ass,  I  doubt  not. 

Sir  And.    O,  'twill  be  admirable. 

Mar.  Sport  royal,  I  warrant  you :  I  know,  my 
physic  will  work  with  him.  I  will  plant  you  two,  and 
let  the  fool  make  a  third,  where  he  shall  find  the  letter; 
observe  his  construction  of  it.  For  this  night,  to  bed, 
and  dream  on  the  event.  Farewell.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.    Good  night,  Penthesilea. 

Sir  And.    Before  me,  she's  a  good  wench. 

Sir  To.  She's  a  beagle,  true  bred,  and  one  that 
adores  me  :  What  o'  that  ? 

Sir  And.    I  was  adored  once,  too. 

Sir  To.  Let's  to  bed,  knight. — Thou  hadst  need 
send  for  more  money. 

Sir  And.  If  I  cannot  recover  your  niece,  I  am  a 
foul  way  out. 

Sir  To.  Send  for  money,  knight ;  if  thou  hast  her 
not  i'  the  end,  call  me  Cut.1 

Sir  And.  If  I  do  not,  never  trust  me,  take  it  how 
you  will. 

Sir  To.  Come,  come  ;  I'll  go  burn  some  sack ;  'tis 
too  late  to  go  to  bed  now :  come,  knight ;  come, 
knight.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  DUKE,  VIOLA,  CURIO,  and  others. 

Duke.    Give  me  some  music: — Now,  good  morrow, 

friends : — 

Now,  good  Cesario,  but  that  piece  of  song, 
That  old  and  antique  song  we  heard  last  night  ; 
Methought,  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much, 
More  than  light  airs  and  recollected  terms, 

Of  these  most  brisk  and  giddy-paced  times  : 

Come,  but  one  verse. 

1  i.  e.  Call  me  a  gelding :  this  was  a  common  expression  of  reproach. 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  277 

Cur.  He  is  not  here,  so  please  your  lordship,  that 
should  sing  it. 

Duke.   Who  was  it  ? 

Cur.  Feste,  the  jester,  my  lord;  a  fool,  that  the 
lady  Olivia's  lather  took  much  delight  in :  he  is  about 
the  house. 

Duke.    Seek  him  out,  and  play  the  tune  the  while. 

[Exit  CURIO. — Music. 
Come  hither,  boy  :  If  ever  thou  shalt  love, 
In  the  sweet  pangs  of  it,  remember  me ; 
For,  such  as  I  am,  all  true  lovers  are ; 
Unstaid  and  skittish  in  all  motions  else, 
Save  in  the  constant  image  of  the  creature 
That  is  beloved. — How  dost  thou  like  this  tune  ? 

Vio.    It  gives  a  very  echo  to  the  seat 
Where  Love  is  throned. 

Duke.  Thou  dost  speak  masterly : 

My  life  upon't,  young  though  thou  art,  thine  eye 
Hath  stayed  upon  some  favor  that  it  loves ; 
Hath  it  not,  boy  ? 

Vio.  A  little,  by  your  favor. 

Duke.   What  kind  of.  woman  is't  ? 

Vio.  Of  your  complexion. 

Duke.    She  is  not  worth  thee,   then.     What  years, 
i'faith? 

Vio.    About  your  years,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Too  old,  by  heaven  :  Let  still  the  woman  take 
An  elder  than  herself;  so  wTears  she  to  him, 
So  sways  she  level  in  her  husband's  heart. 
For,  boy,  however  we  do  praise  ourselves, 
Our  fancies  are  more  giddy  and  unfirm, 
More  longing,  wavering,  sooner  lost  and  worn,1 
Than  women's  are. 

Vio.  I -think  it  well,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Then  let  thy  love  be  younger  than  thyself, 
Or  thy  affection  cannot  hold  the  bent : 
For  women  are  as  roses ;  whose  fair  flower, 
Being  once  displayed,  doth  fall  that  very  hour. 

l  i.  e.  consumed,  worn  out. 


278  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  IL 

Vio.    And  so  they  are  :  alas,  that  they  are  so  ; 
To  die,  even  when  they  to  perfection  grow ! 

Re-enter  CURIO  and  Clown. 

Duke.    O  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night : 
Mark  it,  Cesario  ;  it  is  old,  and  plain  : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And    the    free1  maids    that  weave  their   thread  with 

bones, 

Do  use  to  chant  it ;  it  is  silly  sooth,2 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  love, 
Like  the  old  age.3 

Clo.    Are  you  ready,  sir  ? 

Duke.    Ay  ;  pr'ythee,  sing.  [Music. 

SONG. 

Clo.    Come  away,  come  away,  death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away, fly  away,  breath; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O,  prepare  it ; 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  : 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  0,  where 
Sad  true-love  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

Duke.    There's  for  thy  pains. 

Clo.    No  pains,  sir ;   I  take  pleasure  in  singing,  sir. 

Duke.    I'll  pay  thy  pleasure,  then. 

i  Merry,  gay.  2  Silly  sooth  is  simple  truth. 

3  The  old  age  is  the  ages  past,  times  of  simplicity. 


SC.  IV.J  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  279 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  and  pleasure  will  be  paid  one  time 
or  another. 

Duke.    Give  me  now  leave  to  leave  thee.1 

Clo.  Now,  the  melancholy  god  protect  thee ;  and 
the  tailor  make  thy  doublet  of  changeable  taffeta,  for  thy 
mind  is  a  very  opal.2 — I  would  have  men  of  such  con 
stancy  put  to  sea,  that  their  business  might  be  every 
thing,  and  their  intent  every  where  ;  for  that's  it,  that 
always  makes  a  good  voyage  of  nothing. — Farewell. 

[Exit  Clown. 

Duke.    Let  all  the  rest  give  place. 

[Exeunt  CURIO  and  Attendants. 
Once  more,  Cesario, 

Get  thee  to  yon'  same  sovereign  cruelty  : 
Tell  her,  my  love,  more  noble  than  the  world, 
Prizes  not  quantity  of  dirty  lands  ; 
The  parts  that  fortune  hath  bestowed  upon  her, 
Tell  her,  I  hold  as  giddily  as  fortune  ; 
But  'tis  that  miracle,  and  queen  of  gems, 
That  nature  pranks  her  in,  attracts  my  soul. 

Vio.   But,  if  she  cannot  love  you,  sir  ? 

Duke.    I  cannot  be  so  answered. 

Vio.  'Sooth,  but  you  must 

Say,  that  some  lady,  as,  perhaps,  there  is, 
Hath  for  your  love  as  great  a  pang  of  heart 
As  you  have  for  Olivia  :  you  cannot  love  her ; 
You  tell  her  so :  Must  she  not  then  be  answered  ? 

Duke.    There  is  no  woman's  sides 
Can  bide  the  beating  of  so  strong  a  passion 
As  love  doth  give  my  heart :  no  woman's  heart 
So  big,  to  hold  so  much ;  they  lack  retention. 
Alas,  their  love  may  be  called  appetite, — 
No  motion  of  the  liver,  but  the  palate, — 
That  suffer  surfeit,  cloyment,  and  revolt ; 
But  mine  is  all  as  hungry  as  the  sea, 
And  can  digest  as  much :  make  no  compare 


1  This  is  probably  an  error  of  the  press,  and  should  read,  "  /  give  thee 

'2  Tl 

lights. 


now  leave  to  leave  me." 
2  The  opal  is  a  gem  which  varies  its  hues,  as  it  is  viewed  in  different 


280  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  II. 

Between  that  love  a  woman  can  bear  me, 
And  that  I  owe  Olivia. 

Vio.  Ay,  but  I  know, 

Duke.   What  dost  thou  know  ? 

Vio.    Too  well  what  love  women  to  men  may  owe : 
In  faith,  they  are  as  true  of  heart  as  we. 
My  father  had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 
As  it  might  be,  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
I  should  your  lordship. 

Duke.  And  what's  her  history  ? 

Vio.    A  blank,  my  lord :  She  never  told  her  love, 
But  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud, 
Feed  on  her  damask  cheek :  she  pined  in  thought ; 
And,  with  a  green  and  yellow  melancholy, 
She  sat  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief.     Was  not  this  love,  indeed  ? 
We  men  may  say  more,  swear  more  :  but,  indeed, 
Our  shows  are  more  than  will ;  for  still  we  prove 
Much  in  our  vows,  but  little  in  our  love. 

Duke.    But  died  thy  sister  of  her  love,  my  boy  ? 

Vio.    I  am  all  the  daughters  of  my  father's  house, 
And  all  the  brothers  too ; — and  yet  I  know  not : — 
Sir,  shall  I  to  this  lady  ? 

Duke.  Ay,  that's  the  theme. 

To  her  in  haste  :  give  her  this  jewel ;  say, 
My  love  can  give  no  place,  bide  no  denay.1      [Exeunt. 


SCENE  V.     Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  SIR  TOBY  BELCH,  SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK, 
and  FABIAN. 

Sir  To.    Come  thy  ways,  signior  Fabian. 

Fab.  Nay,  I'll  come;  if  I  lose  a  scruple  of  this 
sport,  let  me  be  boiled  to  death  with  melancholy. 

Sir  To.  Would'st  thou  not  be  glad  to  have  the  nig 
gardly  rascally  sheep-biter  come  by  some  notable  shame  ? 

1  Denial. 


SC.  V.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  281 

Fab.  I  would  exult,  man ;  you  know,  he  brought 
me  out  of  favor  with  my  lady,  about  a  bear-baiting  here. 

Sir  To.  To  anger  him,  we'll  have  the  bear  again ; 
and  \ve  will  fool  him  black  and  blue : — Shall  we  not, 
Sir  Andrew? 

Sir  And.    An  we  do  not,  it  is  pity  of  our  lives. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Here  comes  the  little  villain : — How  now, 
my  nettle  of  India  ? l 

Mar.  Get  ye  all  three  into  the  box-tree  :  Malvolio's 
coming  down  this  walk ;  he  has  been  yonder  i'  the 
sun,  practising  behavior  to  his  own  shadow,  this  half 
hour :  observe  him,  for  the  love  of  mockery ;  for  I 
know,  this  letter  will  make  a  contemplative  idiot  of 
him.  Close,  in  the  name  of  jesting!  [The  men  hide 
themselves.']  Lie  thou  there;  [throws  down  a  letter ;] 
for  here  comes  the  trout  that  must  be  caught  with 
tickling.  [Exit  MARIA. 


Enter  MALVOLIO. 

Mai.  5Tis  but  fortune ;  all  is  fortune.  Maria  once 
told  me,  she  did  affect  me :  and  I  have  heard  herself 
come  thus  near,  that,  should  she  fancy,  it  should  be 
one  of  my  complexion.  Besides,  she  uses  me  with  a 
more  exalted  respect,  than  any  one  else  that  follows 
her.  What  should  I  think  on't? 

Sir  To.    Here's  an  overweening  rogue  ! 

Fab.  O,  peace  !  Contemplation  makes  a  rare  tur 
key-cock  of  him;  how  he  jets2  under  his  advanced 
plumes ! 

1  The  first  folio  reads  "  mettle  of  India."     By  the  nettle  of  India  is 
meant  a  zoophite,  called  Urtica  Marina,  abounding  in  the  Indian  seas, 
"  QM<E  tacta  totius  corporis  pruritum  quendam  excitat,  unde  nomen  Urticce, 
est  sortita" — Franzii  Hist.  Animal.  1665,  p.  620.     In  Holland's  translation 
of  Pliny,  Book  ix. — "  As  for  those  nettles,  &c.,  their  qualities  is  to  raise 
an  itching  smart"     So  Green,  in  his  "  Card  of  Fancie," — "  The  flower  of 
India,  pleasant  to  be  seen,  but  whoso  smelleth  to  it  feeleth  present  smart" 
He  refers  to  it  again  in  his  Mamilia,  1593.    Maria  has  certainly  excited 
a  congenial  sensation  in  Sir  Toby.    Mettle  of  India  would  signify  my  girl 
of  gold,  my  precious  girl. 

2  To  jet  was  to  strut. 

VOL.  i.  36 


282  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  II 

Sir  And.    'Slight,  I  could  so  beat  the  rogue  : — 

Sir  To.    Peace,  I  say. 

Mai.    To  be  Count  Malvolio ; — 

Sir  To.    Ah,  rogue  ! 

Sir  And.    Pistol  him,  pistol  him. 

Sir  To.    Peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  There  is  example  for't ;  the  lady  of  the 
Strachy1  married  the  yeoman  of  the  wardrobe. 

Sir  And.    Fie  on  him,  Jezebel ! 

Fab.  O,  peace !  now  he's  deeply  in ;  look  how 
imagination  blows 2  him. 

O 

Mai.  Having  been  three  months  married  to  her, 
sitting  in  my  state, — 

Sir  To.    O,  for  a  stone  bow,  to  hit  him  in  the  eye  ! 

Mai.  Calling  my  officers  about  me,  in  my  branched 
velvet  gowrn ;  having  come  from  a  day  bed,  where  I 
left  Olivia  sleeping, — 

Sir  To.    Fire  and  brimstone  ! 

Fab.    O,  peace,  peace  ! 

Mai.  And  then  to  have  the  humor  of  state :  and 
after  a  demure  travel  of  regard, — telling  them  I  know 
my  place,  as  I  would  they  should  do  theirs — to  ask  for 
my  kinsman  Toby  : — 

Sir  To.    Bolts  and  shackles  ! 

Fab.    O,  peace,  peace,  peace !  now,  now. 

Mai.  Seven  of  my  people,  with  an  obedient  start, 
make  out  for  him  :  I  frown  the  while  ;  and,  perchance, 
wind  up  my  watch,  or  play  with  my  some  rich  jewel. 
Toby  approaches  ;  court'sies  there  to  me  :  — 

Sir  To.    Shall  this  fellow  live  ? 

Fab.  Though  our  silence  be  drawn  from  us  with 
cars,3  yet  peace. 

Mai.  I  extend  my  hand  to  him  thus,  quenching  my 
familiar  smile  with  an  austere  regard  of  control : — 

1  Mr.  R.  P.  Knight  conjectures  that  this  is  a  corruption  of  Stratici,  a 
title  anciently  given  to  the  Governors  of  Messina,  and  Illyria  is  not  far 
from  Messina.     If  so,  it  will  mean  the  Governor's  lady.     The  word  Strachy 
is  printed  with  a  capital  and  in  Italics  in  the  first  folio. 

2  Puffs  him  up. 

3  Thus  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  the  clown  says — "Who  that 
is,  a  team  of  horses  shall  not  pluck  from  me." 


SC.  V.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  283 

Sir  To.  And  does  not  Toby  take  you  a  blow  o'  the 
lips  then  ? 

Mai.  Saying,  Cousin  Toby,  my  fortunes  having  cast 
me  on  your  niece,  give  me  this  prerogative  of  speech  : — 

Sir  To.   What,  what? 

Mai.    You  must  amend  your  drunkenness. 

Sir  To.    Out,  scab ! 

Fab.  Nay,  patience,  or  we  break  the  sinews  of  our 
plot. 

Mai.  Besides,  you  waste  the  treasure  of  your  time 
with  a  foolish  knight — 

Sir  And.    That's  me,  I  warrant  you. 

Mai.    One  Sir  Andrew : — 

Sir  And.    I  knew  'twas  I ;  for  many  do  call  me  fool. 

Mai.    What  employment  have  we  here  ? 

[Taking  up  the  letter. 

Fab.    Now  is  the  woodcock  near  the  gin. 

Sir  To.  O,  peace  !  and  the  spirit  of  humors  intimate 
reading  aloud  to  him  ? 

Mai.  By  my  life,  this  is  my  lady's  hand :  these  be 
her  very  C's,  her  t/'s,  and  her  7T's ;  and  thus  makes 
she  her  great  P's.  It  is,  in  contempt  of  question,  her 
hand. 

Sir  And.    Her  C's,  her  f/'s,  and  her  T's :   Why  that? 

Mai.  [Reads, ,]  To  the  unknown  beloved,  this,  and  my 
good  wishes :  her  very  phrases  ! — By  your  leave,  wax. 
— Soft ! — and  the  impressure  her  Lucrece,  with  which 
she  uses  to  seal :  'tis  my  lady :  To  whom  should 
this  be  ? 

Fab.    This  wins  him,  liver  and  all. 

Mai.    [Reads.]  Jove  knows,  I  love  : 

But  who  ? 
Lips  do  not  move, 

No  man  must  know. 

No  man  must  know. — What  follows  ?  the  numbers 
altered  ! — No  man  must  know  : — If  this  should  be  thee, 
Malvolio  ? 

Sir  To.  Marry,  hang  thee,  brock ! l 

1  i.  e.  badger,  a  term  of  contempt 


284  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  II. 

Mai.   I  may  command  where  I  adore  : 

But  silence,  like  a  Lucre ce  knife, 
With  bloodless  stroke  my  heart  doth  gore ; 
M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life. 

Fab.    A  fustian  riddle  ! 

Sir  To.    Excellent  wench,  say  I. 

Mai.  M,  O,  A,  I,  doth  sway  my  life. — Nay,  but  first, 
let  me  see, — let  me  see, — let  me  see. 

Fab.    What  a  dish  of  poison  has  she  dressed  him  ! 

Sir  To.  And  with  what  wing  the  stannyel 1  checks 
at  it ! 

Mai.  I  may  command  where  I  adore.  Why,  she 
may  command  me  ;  I  serve  her;  she  is  my  lady.  Why, 
this  is  evident  to  any  formal  capacity.  There  is  no 
obstruction  in  this  : — And  the  end, — What  should  that 
alphabetical  position  portend?  If  I  could  make  that 
resemble  something  in  me!— Softly! — If,  0,  A,  I. — 

Sir  To.  O,  ay !  make  up  that : — he  is  now7  at  a 
cold  scent. 

Fab.  Sowter 2  will  cry  upon't,  for  all  this,  though  it 
be  as  rank  as  a  fox. 

Mai.  My — Malvolio  ; — M, — why,  that  begins  my 
name. 

Fab.  Did  not  I  say,  he  would  work  it  out  ?  the  cur 
is  excellent  at  faults. 

Mai.  M, — But  then  there  is  no  consonancy  in  the 
sequel ;  that  suffers  under  probation  :  A  should  follow, 
but  O  does. 

Fab.    And  O  shall  end,  I  hope. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  or  I'll  cudgel  him,  and  make  him 
cry,  O. 

Mai.    And  then  /  comes  behind. 

Fab.  Ay,  an  you  had  any  eye  behind  you,  you  might 
see  more  detraction  at  your  heels,  than  fortunes  be 
fore  you. 


1  The  common  stone-hawk,  which  inhabits  old  buildings  and  rocks. 
To  check,  says  Latham  in  his  book  of  Falconry,  is,  «  when  crows,  rooks, 
pies,  or  other  birds,  coming  in  view  of  the  hawk,  she  forsa.keth  her  natural 
flight  to  fly  at  them." 

2  Sowter  is  here  used  as  the  name  of  a  hound. 


SC.  V.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  285 

Mai.  M,  O,  A,  I; — This  simulation  is  not  as  the 
former : — and  yet,  to  crash  this  a  little,  it  would  bow 
to  me,  for  every  one  of  these  letters  are  in  my  name. 
Soft ;  here  follows  prose. — If  this  fall  into  thy  hand, 
revolve.  In  my  stars  1  am  above  thee  ;  but  be  not  afraid 
of  greatness :  Some  are  bom  great,  some  achieve  great 
ness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them.  Thy 
fates  open  their  hands ;  let  thy  blood  and  spirit  embrace 
them.  And,  to  inure  thyself  to  what  thou  art  like  to  be, 
cast  thy  humble  slough,  and  appear  fresh.  Be  opposite1 
with  a  kinsman,  surly  with  servants :  let  thy  tongue 
tang  arguments  of  state ;  put  thyself  into  the  trick  of 
singularity :  She  thus  advises  thee,  that  sighs  for  thee. 
Remember  who  commended  thy  yellow  stockings ;  and 
wished  to  see  thee  ever  cross-gartered  :2  I  say,  remember. 
Go  to;  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  so;  if  not, 
let  me  see  thee  a  steward  still,  the  fellow  of  servants, 
and  not  worthy  to  touch  fortune^  fingers.  Farewell. 
She  that  would  alter  services  with  thee, — The  fortunate- 
unhappy. 

Day-light  and  champain 3  discovers  not  more  :  this  is 
open.  I  will  be  proud,  I  will  read  politic  authors,  I 
will  baffle  Sir  Toby,  I  will  wash  off  gross  acquaintance, 
I  will  be  point-de-vice,4  the  very  man.  I  do  not  now 
fool  myself,  to  let  imagination  jade  me  ;  for  every  rea 
son  excites  to  this,  that  my  lady  loves  me.  She  did 
commend  my  yellow  stockings  of  late,  she  did  praise 
my  leg  being  cross-gartered ;  and  in  this  she  manifests 
herself  to  my  love,  and,  with  a  kind  of  injunction,  drives 
me  to  these  habits  of  her  liking.  I  thank  my  stars,  I 
am  happy.  I  will  be  strange,  stout,  in  yellow  stock 
ings,  and  cross-gartered,  even  with  the  swiftness  of 
putting  on.  Jove  and  my  stars  be  praised ! — Here  is 

1  i.  e.  adverse,  hostile. 

-  A  fashion  once  prevailed  for  some  time  of  wearing  the  garters  crossed 
on  the  leg.  It  should  be  remembered  that  rich  and  expensive  garters 
worn  below  the  knee  were  then  in  use. 

3  Open  country. 

4  i.  e.  exactly  the  same  in  every  particular.     The  etymology  of  this 
phrase  is  very  uncertain.     The  most  probable  seems  the  French  a  point 
devise. 


286  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  II. 


yet  a  postscript. — Thou  canst  not  choose  but  know  who 
I  am.  If  thou  entertainest  my  love,  let  it  appear  in  thy 
smiling ;  thy  smiles  become  thee  well :  therefore  in  my 
presence  still  smile,  dear  my  sweet,  I  pr^ythee. — Jove,  I 
thank  thee. — I  will  smile ;  I  will  do  every  thing  that 
thou  wilt  have  me.  [Exit. 

Fab.  I  will  not  give  my  part  of  this  sport  for  a  pen 
sion  of  thousands  to  be  paid  from  the  Sophy.1 

Sir  To.    I  could  marry  this  wench  for  this  device. 

Sir  And.    So  could  I  too. 

Sir  To.  And  ask  no  other  dowry  with  her,  but  such 
another  jest. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  And.    Nor  I  neither. 

Fab.    Here  comes  my  noble  gull-catcher. 

Sir  To.    Wilt  thou  set  thy  foot  o'  my  neck  ? 

Sir  And.    Or  o'  mine  either  ? 

Sir  To.  Shall  I  play  my  freedom  at  tray-trip,2  and 
become  thy  bond-slave  ? 

Sir  And.    I 'faith,  or  I  either? 

Sir  To.  Why,  thou  hast  put  him  in  such  a  dream, 
that,  when  the  image  of  it  leaves  him,  he  must  run  mad. 

Mar.    Nay,  but  say  true  ;  does  it  work  upon  him  ? 

Sir  To.    Like  aqua-vitae  with  a  midwife. 

Mar.  If  you  will  then  see  the  fruits  of  the  sport, 
mark  his  first  approach  before  my  lady :  he  will  come 
to  her  in  yellow  stockings,  and  'tis  a  color  she  abhors ; 
and  cross-gartered,  a  fashion  she  detests ;  and  he  will 
smile  upon  her,  which  will  now  be  so  unsuitable  to  her 
disposition,  being  addicted  to  a  melancholy  as  she  is, 
that  it  cannot  but  turn  him  into  a  notable  contempt : 
if  you  will  see  it,  follow  me. 

Sir  To.  To  the  gates  of  Tartar,  thou  most  excellent 
devil  of  wit ! 

Sir  And.    I'll  make  one  too.  [Exeunt. 

1  Alluding  to  Sir  Robert  Shirley,  who  was  just  returned  in  the  charac 
ter  of  ambassador  from  the  Sophy.     He  boasted  of  the  great  rewards  he 
had  ^received,  and  lived  in  London  with  the  utmost  splendor. 

2  'An  old  game  played  with  dice  or  tables. 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  287 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.     Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  VIOLA,  and  Clown  with  a  Tabor. 

Vio.  Save  thee,  friend,  and  thy  music :  Dost  thou 
live  by  thy  tabor  ? 

Clo.   No,  sir,  I  live  by  the  church. 

Vio.    Art  thou  a  churchman  ? 

Clo.  No  such  matter,  sir ;  I  do  live  by  the  church : 
for  I  do  live  at  my  house,  and  my  house  doth  stand  by 
the  church. 

Vio.  So  thou  may'st  say,  the  king  lives  by  a  beggar, 
if  a  beggar  dwell  near  him ;  or,  the  church  stands  by 
thy  tabor,  if  thy  tabor  stand  by  the  church. 

Clo.  You  have  said,  sir. — To  see  this  age  ! — A  sen 
tence  is  but  a  cheveril  glove  to  a  good  wit ;  how 
quickly  the  wrong  side  may  be  turned  outward ! 

Vio.  Nay,  that's  certain ;  they,  that  dally  nicely 
with  words,  may  quickly  make  them  wanton. 

Clo.  I  would,  therefore,  my  sister  had  had  no 
name,  sir. 

Vio.    Why,  man  ? 

Clo.  Why,  sir,  her  name's  a  word ;  and  to  dally 
with  that  word,  might  make  my  sister  wanton :  But, 
indeed,  words  are  very  rascals,  since  bonds  disgraced 
them. 

Vio.    Thy  reason,  man  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  I  can  yield  you  none  without  words  ; 
and  words  are  grown  so  false,  I  am  loath  to  prove  rea 
son  with  them. 

Vio.  I  warrant,  thou  art  a  merry  fellow,  and  carest 
for  nothing. 

Clo.  Not  so,  sir ;  I  do  care  for  something :  but  in 
my  conscience,  sir,  I  do  not  care  for  you ;  if  that  be  to 
care  for  nothing,  sir,  I  would  it  would  make  you 
invisible. 

Vio.    Art  not  thou  the  lady  Olivia's  fool  ? 


288  TWELFTH   NIGHT ;  OR,  [ACT  III. 

Clo.  No,  indeed,  sir ;  the  lady  Olivia  has  no  folly : 
she  will  keep  no  fool,  sir,  till  she  be  married  ;  and  fools 
are  as  like  husbands,  as  pilchards  are  to  herrings ;  the 
husband's  the  bigger ;  I  am,  indeed,  not  her  fool,  but 
her  corrupter  of  words. 

Vio.    I  saw  thee  late  at  the  count  Orsino's. 

Clo.  Foolery,  sir,  does  walk  about  the  orb,  like  the 
sun  ;  it  shines  every  where.  I  would  be  sorry,  sir,  but 
the  fool  should  be  as  oft  with  your  master,  as  with  my 
mistress :  I  think  I  saw  your  wisdom  there. 

Vio.  Nay,  an  thou  pass  upon  me,  I'll  no  more  with 
thee.  Hold,  there's  expenses  for  thee. 

Clo.  Now  Jove,  in  his  next  commodity  of  hair,  send 
thee  a  beard ! 

Vio.  By  my  troth,  I'll  tell  thee ;  I  am  almost  sick 
for  one ;  though  I  would  not  have  it  grow  on  my  chin. 
Is  thy  lady  within  ? 

Clo.    Would  not  a  pair  of  these  have  bred,  sir  ? 

Vio.    Yes,  being  kept  together,  and  put  to  use. 

Clo.  I  would  play  lord  Pandarus  of  Phrygia,  sir,  to 
bring  a  Cressida  to  this  Troilus. 

Vio.    I  understand  you,  sir ;  'tis  well  begged. 

Clo.  The  matter,  I  hope,  is  not  great,  sir,  begging 
but  a  beggar ;  Cressida  was  a  beggar.  My  lady  is 
within,  sir.  I  will  construe  to  them  whence  you  come ; 
who  you  are,  and  what  you  would,  are  out  of  my  wel 
kin  ;  I  might  say,  element ;  but  the  word  is  over-worn. 

[Exit. 

Vio.    This  fellow's  wise  enough  to  play  the  fool  ; 
And  to  do  that  well,  craves  a  kind  of  wit : 
He  must  observe  their  mood  on  whom  he  jests, 
The  quality  of  persons,  and  the  time  ; 
And,  like  the  haggard,1  check  at  every  feather 
That  comes  before  his  eye.     This  is  a  practice, 
As  full  of  labor  as  a  wise  man's  art : 
For  folly,  that  he  wisely  shows,  is  fit ; 
But  wise  men,  folly-fallen,  quite  taint  their  wit. 

1  A  wild  hawk,  or  hawk  not  well  trained. — Dr.  Johnson  reads  "  JVbr  like 
a  haggard,"  &c. 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  289 


Enter   SIR   TOBY   BELCH  and   SIR   ANDREW   AGUE- 
CHEEK. 

Sir  To.    Save  you,  gentleman. 

Vio.    And  you,  sir. 

Sir  And.   Dieu  vous  garde,  monsieur. 

Vio.   Et  vous  aussi ;  votre  serviteur. 

Sir  And.    I  hope,  sir,  you  are  ;  and  I  am  yours. 

Sir  To.  Will  you  encounter  the  house  ?  my  niece 
is  desirous  you  should  enter,  if  your  trade  be  to  her. 

Vio.  I  am  bound  to  your  niece,  sir :  I  mean,  she  is 
the  list  of  my  voyage. 

Sir  To.    Taste  your  legs,  sir,  put  them  to  motion. 

Vio.  My  legs  do  better  understand  me,  sir,  than 
I  understand  what  you  mean  by  bidding  me  taste 
my  legs. 

Sir  To.    I  mean,  to  go,  sir,  to  enter. 

Vio.  I  will  answer  you  with  gait  and  entrance : 
But  we  are  prevented. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

Most  excellent  accomplished  lady,  the  heavens  rain 
odors  on  you ! 

Sir  And.  That  youth's  a  rare  courtier !  Rain 
odors!  well. 

Vio.  My  matter  hath  no  voice,  lady,  but  to  your 
own  most  pregnant1  and  vouchsafed  ear. 

Sir  And.  Odors,  pregnant,  and  vouchsafed : — I'll 
get  'em  all  three  ready. 

OIL  Let  the  garden  door  be  shut,  and  leave  me  to 
my  hearing. 

[Exeunt  SIR  TOBY,  SIR  ANDREW,  and  MARIA. 
Give  me  your  hand,  sir. 

Vio.    My  duty,  madam,  and  most  humble  service. 

Oil.    What  is  your  name  ? 

Vio.    Cesario  is  your  servant's  name,  fair  princess ! 

OIL   My  servant,  sir !     'Twas  never  merry  world, 

1  i.  e.  ready,  apprehensive ;  voucJisafed,  for  vouchsafing. 
VOL.  i.  37 


290  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  III. 

Since  lowly  feigning  was  called  compliment ; 
You  are  servant  to  the  count  Orsino,  youth. 

Vio.    And  he  is  yours,  and  his  must  needs  be  yours ; 
Your  servant's  servant  is  your  servant,  madam. 

OIL    For  him,  I  think  not  on  him  :  for  his  thoughts, 
'Would  they  were  blanks,  rather  than  filled  with  me! 

Vio.    Madam,  I  come  to  whet  your  gentle  thoughts 
On  his  behalf:— 

OIL  O,  by  your  leave,  I  pray  you  ; 

I  bade  you  never  speak  again  of  him  : 
But,  would  you  undertake  another  suit, 
I  had  rather  hear  you  to  solicit  that, 
Than  music  from  the  spheres. 

Vio.  Dear  lady, — 

OIL    Give  me  leave,  'beseech  you  :   1  did  send, 
After  the  last  enchantment  you  did  here, 
A  ring  in  chase  of  you  ;   so  did  I  abuse 
Myself,  my  servant,  and,  I  fear  me,  you  : 
Under  your  hard  construction  must  I  sit, 
To  force  that  on  you,  in  a  shameful  cunning, 
Which  you    knew   none   of  yours :    what    might   you 

think? 

Have  you  not  set  mine  honor  at  the  stake, 
And  baited  it  with  all  the  unmuzzled  thoughts 
That   tyrannous    heart    can   think?     To   one  of  your 


receiving  l 


Enough  is  shown  ;   a  Cyprus,2  not  a  bosom, 
Hides  my  poor  heart:   so  let  me  hear  you  speak. 

Vlo.    I  pity  you. 

OIL    That's  a  degree  to  love. 

Vio.    No,  not  a  grise  ; 3  for  'tis  a  vulgar  proof, 
That  very  oft  we  pity  enemies. 

OIL    Why,  then,  rnethinks,  'tis  time  to  smile  again; 

0  world,  how  apt  the  poor  arc*  to  be  proud  ! 

1  Tone  should  be  a  prey,  how  much  the  better 
To  fall  before  the  lion,  than  the  wolf? 

[Clock  strikes. 


1  Ready  apprehension. 

2  i.  o.  a  thin  veil  of  crape  or  Cyprus. 

3  Step. 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  291 

The  clock  upbraids  me  with  the  waste  of  time. — 
Be  not  afraid,  good  youth,  I  will  not  have  you : 
And  yet,  when  wit  and  youth  is  come  to  harvest, 
Your  wife  is  like  to  reap  a  proper  man  : 
There  lies  your  way,  due  west. 

Vio.  Then  westward-hoe : 

Grace  and  good  disposition  'tend  your  ladyship ! 
You'll  nothing,  madam,  to  my  lord  by  me  ? 

OIL    Stay : 
I  pr'ythee,  tell  me  what  thou  think'st  of  me. 

Vio.    That  you  do  think,  you  are  not  what  you  are. 

OIL    If  I  think  so,  I  think  the  same  of  you. 

Vio.    Then  think  you  right ;  I  am  not  what  I  am. 

OIL    I  would  you  were  as  I  would  have  you  be ! 

Vio.    Would  if  be  better,  madam,  than  I  am, 
I  wish  it  might ;  for  now  I  am  your  fool. 

OIL    O,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip ! 
A  murderous  guilt  shows  not  itself  more  soon 
Than  love  that  would  seem  hid  :  love's  night  is  noon. 
Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
By  maidhood,  honor,  truth,  and  every  thing, 
I  love  thee  so,  that,  maugre  all  thy  pride, 
Nor  wit,  nor  reason,  can  my  passion  hide. 
Do  not  extort  thy  reasons  from  this  clause, 
For,  that  I  woo,  thou  therefore  hast  no  cause : 
But,  rather,  reason  thus  with  reason  fetter : 
Love  sought  is  good,  but  given  unsought,  is  better. 

Vio.    By  innocence  I  swear,  and  by  my  youth, 
I  have  one  heart,  one  bosom,  and  one  truth, 
And  that  no  woman  has;  nor  never  none 
Shall  mistress  be  of  it,  save  I  alone. 
And  so  adieu,  good  madam;  never  more 
Will  I  my  master's  tears  to  you  deplore. 

OIL    Yet  come   again ;    for  thou,   perhaps,   may'st 

move 
That  heart,  which  now  abhors,  to  like  his  love. 

[Exeunt. 


292  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  HI. 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  SIR  TOBY  BELCH,  SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK, 
and  FABIAN. 

Sir  And.    No,  faith,  I'll  not  stay  a  jot  longer. 

Sir  To.    Thy  reason,  dear  venom  ;  give  thy  reason. 

Fab.    You  must  needs  yield  your  reason,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  I  saw  your  niece  do  more  favors 
to  the  count's  serving  man,  than  ever  she  bestowed 
upon  me  ;  I  saw't  i5  the  orchard. 

Sir  To.  Did  she  see  thee  the  while,  old  boy  ?  Tell 
me  that. 

Sir  And.    As  plain  as  I  see  you  now. 

Fab.  This  was  a  great  argument  of  love  in  her 
toward  you. 

Sir  And.    'Slight !     Will  you  make  an  ass  o'  me  ? 

Fab.  I  will  prove  it  legitimate,  sir,  upon  the  oaths 
of  judgment  and  reason. 

Sir  To.  And  they  have  been  grand  jury-men,  since 
before  Noah  was  a  sailor. 

Fab.  She  did  show  favor  to  the  youth  in  your  sight, 
only  to  exasperate  you,  to  awake  your  dormouse  valor, 
to  put  fire  in  your  heart,  and  brimstone  in  your  liver : 
you  should  then  have  accosted  her;  and  with  some 
excellent  jests,  fire-new  from  the  mint,  you  should  have 
banged  the  youth  into  dumbness.  This  was  looked 
for  at  your  hand,  and  this  was  balked :  the  double 
gilt  of  this  opportunity  you  let  time  wash  off,  and  you 
are  now  sailed  into  the  north  of  my  lady's  opinion ; 
where  you  will  hang  like  an  icicle  on  a  Dutchman's 
beard,  unless  you  do  redeem  it  by  some  laudable  at 
tempt,  either  of  valor  or  policy. 

Sir  And.  And't  be  any  way,  it  must  be  with  valor ; 
for  policy  I  hate  :  I  had  as  lief  be  a  Brownist1  as  a  poli 
tician. 

Sir  To.   Why  then,  build  me  thy  fortunes  upon  the 

1  The  Brownists  were  so  called  from  Mr.  Robert  Brown,  a  noted  Sepa 
ratist  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time. 


SC.  II.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  293 

basis  of  valor.  Challenge  me  the  count's  youth  to  fight 
with  him ;  hurt  him  in  eleven  places ;  my  niece  shall 
take  note  of  it :  and  assure  thyself,  there  is  no  love- 
broker  in  the  world  can  more  prevail  in  man's  com 
mendation  with  woman,  than  report  of  valor. 

Fab.    There  is  no  way  but  this,  Sir  Andrew. 

Sir  And.  Will  either  of  you  bear  me  a  challenge 
to  him  ? 

Sir  To.  Go,  write  it  in  a  martial  hand ;  be  curst 
and  brief;  it  is  no  matter  how  witty,  so  it  be  eloquent, 
and  full  of  invention :  taunt  him  with  the  license  of 
ink :  if  thou  thou'st  him  some  thrice,  it  shall  not  be 
amiss ;  and  as  many  lies  as  will  lie  in  thy  sheet  of 
paper,  although  the  sheet  were  big  enough  for  the  bed 
of  Ware 1  in  England,  set  'em  down ;  go  about  it. 
Let  there  be  gall  enough  in  thy  ink ;  though  thou  write 
with  a  goose-pen,  no  matter :  about  it. 

Sir  And.    Where  shall  I  find  you  ? 

Sir  To.   We'll  call  thee  at  the  cubiculo : 2  Go. 

[Exit  SIR  ANDREW. 

Fab.    This  is  a  dear  manakin  to  you,  Sir  Toby. 

Sir  To.  I  have  been  dear  to  him,  lad :  some  two 
thousand  strong,  or  so. 

Fab.  We  shall  have  a  rare  letter  from  him :  but 
you'll  not  deliver  it. 

Sir  To.  Never  trust  me  then !  And  by  all  means 
stir  on  the  youth  to  an  answer.  I  think,  oxen  and 
wainropes  cannot  hale  them  together.  For  Andrew, 
if  he  were  opened,  and  you  find  so  much  blood  in  his 
liver  as  will  clog  the  foot  of  a  flea,  I'll  eat  the  rest  of 
the  anatomy. 

Fab.  And  his  opposite,  the  youth,  bears  in  his 
visage  no  great  presage  of  cruelty. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Sir  To.  Look,  where  the  youngest  wren  of  nine 
comes. 

1  This  curious  piece  of  furniture  was  a  few  years  since  still  in  being  at 
one  of  the  inns  in  that  town.    It  Avas  reported  to  be  twelve  feet  square, 
and  capable  of  holding  twenty-four  persons. 

2  Chamber. 


294  TWELFTH   NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  III. 

Mar.  If  you  desire  the  spleen,  and  will  laugh  your 
selves  into  stitches,  follow  me  :  yon'  gull  Malvolio  is 
turned  heathen,  a  very  renegade  ;  for  there  is  no  Chris 
tian,  that  means  to  be  saved  by  believing  rightly,  can 
ever  believe  such  impossible  passages  of  grossness. 
He's  in  yellow  stockings. 

Sir  To.    And  cross-gartered  ? 

Mar.  Most  villanously ;  like  a  pedant  that  keeps  a 
school  i'  the  church. — I  have  dogged  him,  like  his 
murderer:  He  does  obey  every  point  of  the  letter  that 
I  dropped  to  betray  him.  He  does  smile  his  face  into 
more  lines,  than  are  in  the  new7  map,  with  the  aug 
mentation  of  the  Indies :  you  have  not  seen  such  a 
thing  as  'tis  ;  I  can  hardly  forbear  hurling  things  at 
him.  I  know,  my  lady  wTili  strike  him  ;  if  she  do, 
he'll  smile,  and  take't  for  a  great  favor. 

Sir  To.    Come,  bring  us,  bring  us  where  he  is. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     A  Street. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.    I  would  not,  by  my  will,  have  troubled  you , 
But,  since  you  make  your  pleasure  of  your  pains, 
I  will  no  further  chide  you. 

Ant.    I  could  not  stay  behind  you  ;  my  desire, 
More  sharp  than  filed  steel,  did  spur  me  forth ; 
And  not  all  love  to  see  you  (though  so  much 
As  might  have  drawn  one  to  a  longer  voyage), 
But  jealousy  what  might  befall  your  travel, 
Being  skilless  in  these  parts;  which, -to  a  stranger, 
Unguided  and  unfriended,  often  prove 
Rough  and  unhospitable  :  My  willing  love, 
The  rather  by  these  arguments  of  fear, 
Set  forth  in  your  pursuit. 

Scb.  My  kind  Antonio, 

I  can  no  other  answer  make,  but  thanks, 
And  thanks,  and  ever  thanks.     Often  good  turns 
Are  shuffled  off  with  such  imcurrent  pay: 


SC.  III.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  295 

But,  were  my  worth,1  as  is  my  conscience,  firm, 
You  should  find  better  dealing.  What's  to  do? 
Shall  we  go  see  the  reliques  of  this  town  ? 

Ant.    To-morrow,  sir  ;  best,  first,  go  see  your  lodging. 

Set).    I  am  not  weary,  and  'tis  long  to  night ; 
I  pray  you,  let  us  satisfy  our  eyes 
With  the  memorials,  and  the  things  of  fame, 
That  do  renown  this  city. 

Ant.  'Would  you'd  pardon  me  ; 

I  do  not  without  danger  walk  these  streets  : 
Once,  in  a  sea-fight,  'gainst  the  count  his  galleys, 
I  did  some  service  ;  of  such  note,  indeed, 
That,  were  I  ta'en  here,  it  \vould  scarce  be  answered. 

Seb.    Belike,  you  slew  great  number  of  his  people. 

Ant.    The  offence  is  not  of  such  a  bloody  nature  ; 
Albeit  the  quality  of  the  time,  and  quarrel, 
Might  well  have  given  us  bloody  argument. 
It  might  have  since  been  answreied  in  repaying 
What  we  took  from  them  ;  which,  for  traffic's  sake, 
Most  of  our  city  did  :  only  myself  stood  out : 
For  which,  if  I  be  lapsed 2  in  this  place, 
I  shall  pay  dear. 

Seb.  Do  not  then  walk  too  open. 

Ant.    It  doth  not  fit  me.     Hold,  sir,  here's  my  purse  : 
In  the  south  suburbs,  at  the  Elephant, 
Is  best  to  lodge  ;  I  will  bespeak  our  diet, 
Whiles  you  beguile  the  time,  and  feed  your  knowledge, 
With  viewing  of  the  lown ;  there  shall  you  have  me. 

Seb.    Why  I  your  purse  ? 

Ant.    Haply,  your  eye  shall  light  upon  some  toy 
You  have  desire  to  purchase ;  and  your  store, 
I  think,  is  not  for  idle  markets,  sir. 

Seb.    I'll  be  your  purse-bearer,  and  leave  you  for 
An  hour. 

Ant.         To  the  Elephant. — 

Seb.  I  do  remember. 

[Exeunt 

1  Wealth,  or  fortune.  2  Caught  and  convicted. 


296  TWELFTH  -NIGHT ;   OR,  [ACT  IP 


SCENE  IV.     Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

OIL    I  have  sent  after  him  :  he  says  he'll  come  : 
How  shall  I  feast  him  ?     What  bestow  on  him  ? 
For  youth  is  bought  more  oft,  than  begged,  or  bor 
rowed. 

1  speak  too  loud. 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? — he  is  sad,  and  civil, 

And  suits  well  for  a  servant  with  my  fortunes ; — 

Where  is  Malvolio  ? 

Mar.  He's  corning,  madam ;  but  in  very  strange 
manner.  He  is  sure  possessed,  madam. 

OIL    Why,  what's  the  matter  ?  does  he  rave  ? 

Mar.  No,  madam,  he  does  nothing  but  smile :  your 
ladyship  w7ere  best  to  have  some  guard  about  you,  if 
he  come  ;  for  sure  the  man  is  tainted  in  his  wits. 

Oli.    Go  call  him  hither. — I'm  as  mad  as  he, 
If  sad  and  merry  madness  equal  be. — 

Enter  MALVOLIO. 

How  now,  Malvolio ! 

Mai.    Sweet  lady,  ho,  ho.  [Smiles  fantastically. 

OIL    Smil'st  thou  ? 
I  sent  for  thee  upon  a  sad  occasion. 

Mai.  Sad,  lady  ?  I  could  be  sad :  this  does  make 
some  obstruction  in  the  blood,  this  cross-gartering : 

'  O  O 

But  what  of  that  ?  if  it  please  the  eye  of  one,  it  is 
with  me  as  the  very  true  sonnet  is :  please  one,  and 
please  all. 

Oli.  Why,  how  dost  thou,  man  ?  what  is  the  mat 
ter  with  thee  ? 

Mai.  Not  black  in  my  mind,  though  yellow  in  my 
legs :  It  did  come  to  his  hands,  and  commands  shall 
be  executed.  I  think,  we  do  know  the  sweet  Ro 
man  hand. 

Oli.   Wilt  thou  go  to  bed,  Malvolio  ? 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  297 

Mai.  To  bed  ?  ay,  sweetheart ;  and  I'll  come  to 
thee. 

OH.  God  comfort  thee  !  Why  dost  thou  smile  so, 
and  kiss  thy  hand  so  oft  ? 

Mar.    How  do  you,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  At  your  request  ?  Yes  ;  nightingales  answer 
daws. 

Mar.  Why  appear  you  with  this  ridiculous  boldness 
before  my  lady  ? 

Mai.   Be  not  afraid  of  greatness : — 'twas  well  writ. 

Oli.    What  meanest  thou  by  that,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.   Some  are  born  great, — 

OIL    Ha? 

Mai.   Some  achieve  greatness, — 

OIL   What  say'st  thou  ? 

Mai.   And  some  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them. 

OIL    Heaven  restore  thee  ! 

Mai.  Remember,  who  commended  thy  yellow  stock 
ings  ;— 

Oli.    Thy  yellow  stockings  ? 

Mai.   And  wished  to  see  thee  cross-gartered. 

Oli.    Cross-gartered  ? 

Mai.  Go  to :  thou  art  made,  if  thou  desirest  to  be 
so; — 

Oli.    Am  I  made  ? 

Mai.   If  not,  let  me  see  thee  a  servant  still. 

Oli.   Why,  this  is  very  midsummer  madness.1 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Madam,  the  young  gentleman  of  the  count 
Orsino's  is  returned ;  I  could  hardly  entreat  him  back : 
he  attends  your  ladyship's  pleasure. 

Oli.  I'll  come  to  him.  [Exit  Servant.]  Good 
Maria,  let  this  fellow  be  looked  to.  Where's  my 
cousin  Toby?  Let  some  of  my  people  have  a  special 
care  of  him ;  I  would  not  have  him  miscarry  for  the 
half  of  my  dowry.  [Exeunt  OLIVIA  and  MARIA. 

Mai.    Oh,  ho !     Do  you  come  near  me  now  ?     No 

l  It  was  an  ancient  opinion  that  hot  weather  affected  the  brain. 
VOL.  i.  38 


298  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  III 

worse  man  than  Sir  Toby  to  look  to  me  ?  This  con 
curs  directly  with  the  letter :  she  sends  him  on  pur 
pose,  that  I  may  appear  stubborn  to  him ;  for  she 
incites  me  to  that  in  the  letter.  Cast  thy  humble 
slough,  says  she ;  be  opposite  with  a  kinsman,  surly 
with  servants, — let  thy  tongue  tang  with  arguments  of 
state, — put  thyself  into  the  trick  of  singularity ; — and, 
consequently,  sets  down  the  manner  how ;  as,  a  sad 
face,  a  reverend  carriage,  a  slow  tongue,  in  the  habit 
of  some  sir  of  note,  and  so  forth.  I  have  limed  her; 
but  it  is  Jove's  doing,  and  Jove  make  me  thankful ! 
And,  when  she  went  away  now,  Let  this  fellow  be 
looked  to :  Fellow  !  not  Malvolio,  nor  after  my  degree, 
but  fellow.  Why  every  thing  adheres  together ;  that 
no  dram  of  a  scruple,  no  scruple  of  a  scruple,  no  ob 
stacle,  no  incredulous  or  unsafe  circumstance, — what 
can  be  said  ?  Nothing  that  can  be,  can  come  between 
me  and  the  full  prospect  of  my  hopes.  Well,  Jove, 
not  I,  is  the  doer  of  this,  and  he  is  to  be  thanked. 


Re-enter  MARIA,  with  SIR  TOBY  BELCH  and  FABIAN. 

Sir  To.  Which  way  is  he,  in  the  name  of  sanctity  ? 
If  all  the  devils  in  hell  be  drawn  in  little,  and  Legion 
himself  possessed  him,  yet  I'll  speak  to  him. 

Fab.  Here  he  is,  here  he  is. — How  is't  with  you, 
sir  ?  How  is't  with  you,  man  ? 

MaL  Go  off:  I  discard  you  ;  let  me  enjoy  my  pri 
vate  ;  go  off. 

Mar.  Lo,  how  hollow  the  fiend  speaks  within  him ! 
Did  not  I  tell  you  ? — Sir  Toby,  my  lady  prays  you  to 
have  a  care  of  him. 

MaL    Ah,  ha !     Does  she  so  ? 

Sir  To.  Go  to,  go  to ;  peace,  peace  ;  we  must  deal 
gently  with  him ;  let  me  alone.  How  do  you,  Mal 
volio  ?  how  is't  with  you  ?  What,  man !  defy  the 
devil ;  consider,  he's  an  enemy  to  mankind. 

MaL    Do  you  know  what  you  say  ? 

Mar.  La  you,  an  you  speak  ill  of  the  devil,  how  he 
takes  it  at  heart !  Pray  God,  he  be  not  bewitched  ! 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  299 

Fab.    Carry  his  water  to  the  wise  woman. 

Mar.  Marry,  and  it  shall  be  done  to-morrow  morn 
ing,  if  I  live.  My  lady  would  not  lose  him  for  more 
than  I'll  say. 

Mai.    How  now,  mistress  ? 

Mar.    O  lord ! 

Sir  To.  Pr'ythee,  hold  thy  peace ;  this  is  not  the 
way.  Do  you  not  see,  you  move  him  ?  let  me  alone 
with  him. 

Fab.  No  way  but  gentleness ;  gently,  gently ;  the 
fiend  is  rough,  and  will  not  be  roughly  used. 

Sir  To.  Why,  how  now,  my  bawcock  ?  how  dost 
thou,  chuck? 

Mai.    Sir? 

Sir  To.  Ay,  biddy,  come  with  me.  What,  man ! 
'tis  not  for  gravity  to  play  at  cherry-pit  with  Satan : 
Hang  him,  foul  collier ! A 

Mar.  Get  him  to  say  his  prayers ;  good  Sir  Toby, 
get  him  to  pray. 

Mai.    My  prayers,  minx  ? 

Mar.  No,  I  warrant  you,  he  will  not  hear  of  god 
liness. 

Mai.  Go,  hang  yourselves  all !  you  are  idle,  shallow 
things :  I  am  not  of  your  element ;  you  shall  know 
more  hereafter.  [Exit. 

Sir  To.    Is't  possible  ? 

Fab.  If  this  were  played  upon  a  stage  now7,  I  could 
condemn  it  as  an  improbable  fiction. 

Sir  To.  His  very  genius  hath  taken  the  infection 
of  the  device,  man. 

Mar.  Nay,  pursue  him  now ;  lest  the  device  take 
air,  and  taint. 

Fab.   Why,  we  shall  make  him  mad,  indeed. 

Mar.    The  house  will  be  the  quieter. 

Sir  To.  Come,  we'll  have  him  in  a  dark  room,  and 
bound.  My  niece  is  already  in  the  belief  that  he  is 
mad ;  we  may  carry  it  thus,  for  our  pleasure,  and  his 
penance,  till  our  very  pastime,  tired  out  of  breath, 

1  Cottier  was  in  Shakspeare's  time  a  term  of  the  highest  reproach. 


300 


TWELFTH   NIGHT;  OR, 


[ACT  III. 


prompt  us  to  have  mercy  on  him ;  at  which  time,  we 
will  bring  the  device  to  the  bar,  and  crown  thee  for  a 
finder  of  madmen.  But  see,  but  see. 


Enter  SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK. 

Fab.    More  matter  for  a  May  morning.1 

Sir  And.  Here's  the  challenge ;  read  it :  I  warrant 
there's  vinegar  and  pepper  in't. 

Fab.    Is't  so  saucy  ? 

Sir  And.    Ay  is  it,  I  warrant  him ;  do  but  read. 

Sir  To.  Give  me.  [Reads.~\  Youth,  whatsoever 
thou  art,  thou  art  but  a  scurvy  fellow. 

Fab.    Good,  and  valiant. 

Sir  To.  Wonder  not,  nor  admire  not  in  thy  mind, 
why  I  do  call  thee  so,  for  I  will  show  thee  no  reason  for't. 

Fab.  A  good  note :  that  keeps  you  from  the  blow 
of  the  law. 

Sir  To.  Thou  contest  to  the  lady  Olivia,  and  in  my 
sight  she  uses  thee  kindly :  but  thou  liest  in  thy  throat ; 
that  is  not  the  matter  I  challenge  thee  for. 

Fab.    Very  brief,  and  exceeding  good  sense-less. 

Sir  To.  I  will  waylay  thee  going  home ;  where  if  it 
be  thy  chance  to  kill  me, — 

Fab.    Good. 

Sir  To.    Thou  killest  me  like  a  rogue  and  a  villain. 

Fab.  Still  you  keep  o'  the  windy  side  of  the  law : 
Good. 

Sir  To.  Fare  thee  well :  And  God  have  mercy  upon 
one  of  our  souls!  He  may  have  mercy  upon  mine ;  but 
my  hope  is  better,  and  so  look  to  thyself.  Thy  friend, 

as  thou  uscst  Mm,  and  thy  sworn  enemy. ANDREW 

AGUE-CHEEK. 

Sir  To.  If  this  letter  move  him  not,  his  legs  cannot : 
I'll  give't  him. 

Mar.  You  may  have  very  fit  occasion  for't ;  he  is 
now  in  some  commerce  with  my  lady,  and  will  by  and 
by  depart. 

It  was  usual  on  the  first  of  May  to  exhibit  metrical  interludes  of  the 
comic  kind,  as  well  as  other  sports. 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  301 

Sir  To.  Go,  Sir  Andrew ;  scout  me  for  him  at  the 
corner  of  the  orchard,  like  a  bum-bailiff:  so  soon  as 
ever  thou  seest  him,  draw ;  arid,  as  thou  drawest,  swear 
horrible  ;  for  it  comes  to  pass  oft,  that  a  terrible  oath, 
with  a  swaggering  accent,  sharply  twanged  off,  gives 
manhood  more  approbation  than  ever  proof  itself  would 
have  earned  him.  Away. 

Sir  And.   Nay,  let  me  alone  for  swearing.        [Exit. 

Sir  To.  Now  will  I  not  deliver  his  letter ;  for  the 
behavior  of  the  young  gentleman  gives  him  out  to  be 
of  good  capacity  and  breeding ;  his  employment  be 
tween  his  lord  and  my  niece  confirms  no  less ;  there 
fore  this  letter,  being  so  excellently  ignorant,  will  breed 
no  terror  in  the  youth ;  he  will  find  it  comes  from  a 
clodpole.  But,  sir,  I  will  deliver  his  challenge  by 
word  of  mouth ;  set  upon  Ague-cheek  a  notable  report 
of  valor  ;  and  drive  the  gentleman  (as  I  know  his  youth 
will  aptly  receive  it)  into  a  most  hideous  opinion  of  his 
rage,  skill,  fury,  and  impetuosity.  This  will  so  fright 
them  both,  that  they  will  kill  one  another  by  the  look, 
like  cockatrices. 

Enter  OLIVIA   and  VIOLA. 

Fab.  Here  he  comes  with  your  niece :  give  them 
way,  till  he  take  leave,  and  presently  after  him. 

Sir  To.  I  will  meditate  the  while  upon  some  horrid 
message  for  a  challenge. 

[Exeunt  SIR  TOBY,  FABIAN,  and  MARIA. 

OIL    I  have  said  too  much  unto  a  heart  of  stone, 
And  laid  mine  honor  too  unchary l  out : 
There's  something  in  me  that  reproves  my  fault ; 
But  such  a  headstrong,  potent  fault  it  is, 
That  it  but  mocks  reproof. 

Vio.  With  the  same  'havior  that  your  passion  bears, 
Go  on  my  master's  griefs. 

OIL  Here,  wear  this  jewel 2  for  me  ;  'tis  my  picture  , 
Refuse  it  not ;  it  hath  no  tongue  to  vex  you : 


1  Incautiously. 

2  Jewel  anciently  signified  any  precious  ornament  of  superfluity. 


30-2  TWELFTH   NIGHT ;   OR,  [ACT  III. 

And,  I  beseech  you,  come  again  to-morrow. 
What  shall  you  ask  of  me  that  I'll  deny, 
That  honor,  saved,  may  upon  asking  give  ? 

Vio.  Nothing  but  this,  your  true  love  for  my 
master. 

OIL    How  with  mine  honor  may  I  give  him  that 
Which  I  have  given  to  you  ? 

Vio.  I  will  acquit  you. 

OH.    Well,  come  again  to-morrow  :  fare  thee  well , 
A  fiend,  like  thee,  might  bear  my  soul  to  hell.      [Exit. 

Re-enter  SIR  TOBY  BELCH  and   FABIAN. 

Sir  To.    Gentleman,  God  save  thee. 

Vio.    And  you,  sir. 

Sir  To.  That  defence  thou  hast,  betake  thee 
to't :  of  what  nature  the  wrongs  are  thou  hast  done 
him,  I  know  not;  but  thy  interceptor,  full  of  de 
spite,  bloody  as  the  hunter,  attends  thee  at  the 
orchard  end :  dismount  thy  tuck,1  be  yare 2  in  thy 
preparation,  for  thy  assailant  is  quick,  skilful,  and 
deadly. 

Vio.  You  mistake,  sir ;  I  am  sure  no  man  hath  any 
quarrel  to  me ;  my  remembrance  is  very  free  and  clear 
from  any  image  of  offence  done  to  any  man. 

Sir  To.  You'll  find  it  otherwise,  I  assure  you: 
therefore,  if  you  hold  your  life  at  any  price,  betake  you 
to  your  guard ;  for  your  opposite  hath  in  him  what 
youth,  strength,  skill,  and  wrath,  can  furnish  man 
withal. 

Vio.    I  pray  you,  sir,  what  is  he  ? 

Sir  To.  He  is  knight,  dubbed  with  unhacked  ra 
pier,  and  on  carpet  consideration ; 3  but  he  is  a  devil 
in  private  brawl :  souls  and  bodies  hath  he  divorced 
three ;  and  his  incensement  at  this  moment  is  so  im 
placable,  that  satisfaction  can  be  none  but  by  pangs 


1  Rapier. 

2  Ready,  nimble. 

3  i.  e.  he  is  a  carpet-knight,  not  dubbed  m  the  field,  but  on  some  peace- 
)le  occasion. 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  303 

of  death  and  sepulchre  :  hob,  nob,1  is  his  word ;  give't, 
or  take't. 

Vio.  I  will  return  again  into  the  house,  and  desire 
some  conduct  of  the  lady.  1  am  no  fighter.  1  have 
heard  of  some  kind  of  men,  that  put  quarrels  purposely 
on  others,  to  taste  their  valor :  belike,  this  is  a  man  of 
that  quirk. 

Sir  To.  Sir,  no ;  his  indignation  derives  itself  out 
of  a  very  competent  injury;  therefore,  get  you  on, 
and  give  him  his  desire.  Back  you  shall  not  to  the 
house,  unless  you  undertake  that  with  me,  which 
with  as  much  safety  you  might  answer  him :  there 
fore  on,  or  strip  your  sword  stark  naked ;  for  meddle 
you  must,  that's  certain,  or  forswear  to  wear  iron 
about  you. 

Vio.  This  is  as  uncivil  as  strange.  I  beseech  you, 
do  me  this  courteous  office,  as  to  know  of  the  knight 
what  my  offence  to  him  is  ;  it  is  something  of  my  neg 
ligence,  nothing  of  my  purpose. 

Sir  To.  I  will  do  so.  Signior  Fabian,  stay  you  by 
this  gentleman  till  my  return.  [Exit  SIR  TOBY. 

Vio.    Pray  you,  sir,  do  you  know  of  this  matter  ? 

Fab.  I  know  the  knight  is  incensed  against  you, 
even  to  a  mortal  arbitrament ;  but  nothing  of  the  cir 
cumstance  more. 

Vio.    I  beseech  you,  what  manner  of  man  is  he  ? 

Fab.  Nothing  of  that  wonderful  promise,  to  read 
him  by  his  form,  as  you  are  like  to  find  him  in  the 
proof  of  his  valor.  He  is,  indeed,  sir,  the  most  skilful, 
bloody,  and  fatal  opposite  that  you  could  possibly  have 
found  in  any  part  of  Illyria.  Will  you  walk  towards 
him  ?  I  will  make  your  peace  with  him,  if  I  can. 

Vio.  I  shall  be  much  bound  to  you  for't :  I  am 
one,  that  would  rather  go  with  sir  priest,  than  sir 
knight :  I  care  not  who  knows  so  much  of  my  mettle. 

[Exeunt. 

i  According  to  some  commentators,  this  phrase  is  a  corruption  of  liab 
or  nab,  meaning  have  or  have  not,  hit  or  miss  ;  according  to  others,  of  hap 
ne  hap,  signifying,  let  it  happen  or  not,  or  at  random. 


304  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  III. 

Re-enter  SIR  TOBY,  with  SIR  ANDREW. 

Sir  To.  Why,  man,  he's  a  very  devil ;  I  have  not 
seen  such  a  virago.  I  had  a  pass  with  him,  rapier, 
scabbard,  and  all,  and  he  gives  me  the  stuckin,1  with 
such  a  mortal  motion,  that  it  is  inevitable  ;  and  on  the 
answer,  he  pays  you  as  surely  as  your  feet  hit  the 
ground  they  step  on :  they  say,  he  has  been  fencer  to 
the  Sophy. 

Sir  And.    Pox  on't,  I'll  not  meddle  with  him. 

Sir  To.  Ay,  but  he  will  not  now  be  pacified ;  Fa 
bian  can  scarce  hold  him  yonder. 

Sir  And.  Plague  on't :  an  I  thought  he  had  been 
valiant  and  so  cunning  in  fence,  Pd  have  seen  him 
damned  ere  I'd  have  challenged  him.  Let  him  let  the 
matter  slip,  and  I'll  give  him  my  horse,  gray  Capilet. 

Sir  To.  I'll  make  the  motion :  stand  here,  make  a 
good  show  on't ;  this  shall  end  without  the  perdition 
of  souls :  marry,  I'll  ride  your  horse  as  well  as  I  ride 
you.  [Aside. 

Re-enter  FABIAN  and  VIOLA. 

I  have  his  horse  [to  FAB.]  to  take  up  the  quarrel ;  1 
have  persuaded  him  the  youth's  a  devil. 

Fab.  He  is  as  horribly  conceited 2  of  him ;  and 
pants,  and  looks  pale,  as  if  a  bear  were  at  his  heels. 

Sir  To.  There's  no  remedy,  sir ;  he  will  fight  with 
you  for  his  oath's  sake :  marry,  he  hath  better  be 
thought  him  of  his  quarrel,  and  he  finds  that  now 
scarce  to  be  worth  talking  of:  therefore  draw,  for 
the  supportance  of  his  vow ;  he  protests,  he  will  not 
hurt  you. 

Vio.  Pray  God  defend  me !  A  little  thing  would 
make  me  tell  them  how  much  I  lack  of  a  man.  [Aside. 

Fab.    Give  ground,  if  you  see  him  furious. 

Sir  To.  Come,  Sir  Andrew,  there's  no  remedy ; 
the  gentleman  will,  for  his  honor's  sake,  have  one  bout 

1  A  corruption  of  stoccata,  an  Italian  term  in  fencing. 

2  He  has  as  horrid  a  conception  of  him. 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  305 

with  you ;  he  cannot  by  the  duello l  avoid  it ;  but  he 
has  promised  me,  as  he  is  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier, 
he  will  not  hurt  you.  Come  on  :  to't. 

Sir  And.   Pray  God,  he  keep  his  oath !         [Draws. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Vio.    I  do  assure  you,  'tis  against  my  will.     [Draws. 

Ant.    Put  up  your  sword  ; — If  this  young  gentleman 
Have  done  offence,  I  take  the  fault  on  me ; 
If  you  offend  him,  I  for  him  defy  you.  [Drawing. 

Sir  To.    You,  sir  ?  why,  what  are  you  ? 

Ant.    One,  sir,  that  for  his  love  dares  yet  do  more 
Than  you  have  heard  him  brag  to  you  he  will. 

Sir  To.  Nay,  if  you  be  an  undertaker,2  I  am  for 
you.  [Draws. 

Enter  Two  Officers. 

Fab.    O  good  Sir  Toby,  hold  ;  here  come  the  officers. 

Sir  To.  I'll  be  with  you  anon.  [To  ANTONIO. 

Vio.    Pray,  sir,  put  up  your  sword,  if  you  please. 

[To  SIR  ANDREW. 

Sir  And.  Marry,  will  I,  sir ; — and  for  that  I  prom 
ised  you,  I'll  be  as  good  as  my  word :  he  will  bear  you 
easily  ;  and  reins  well. 

1  Off.    This  is  the  man ;  do  thy  office. 

2  Off.    Antonio,  I  arrest  thee  at  the  suit 
Of  Count  Orsino. 

Ant.  You  do  mistake  me,  sir. 

1  Off.    No,  sir,  no  jot ;  I  know  your  favor  well, 
Though  now  you  have  no  sea-cap  on  your  head. — 
Take  him  away ;  he  knows  I  know  him  well. 

Ant.    I  must  obey. — This  comes  with  seeking  you  ; 
But  there's  no  remedy ;  I  shall  answer  it. 
What  will  you  do  ?     Now  my  necessity 
Makes  me  to  ask  you  for  my  purse  :  It  grieves  me 
Much  more,  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you, 
Than  what  befalls  myself.     You  stand  amazed ; 
But  be  of  comfort. 

1  Laws  of  duel. 

2  i.  e.  one  who  takes  up  or  undertakes  the  quarrel  of  another. 
VOL.   i.  39 


306  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  III. 

2  Off.    Come,  sir,  away. 

Ant.    I  must  entreat  of  you  some  of  that  money. 

Vio.    What  money,  sir  ? 

For  the  fair  kindness  you  have  showed  me  here, 
And,  part,  being  prompted  by  your  present  trouble, 
Out  of  my  lean  and  low  ability 
I'll  lend  you  something  :  my  having  is  not  much  ; 
I'll  make  division  of  my  present  with  you; 
Hold,  there  is  half  my  coffer. 

Ant.  Will  you  deny  me  now  ? 

Is't  possible,  that  my  deserts  to  you 
Can  lack  persuasion  ?     Do  not  tempt  my  misery, 
Lest  that  it  make  me  so  unsound  a  man, 
As  to  upbraid  you  with  those  kindnesses 
That  I  have  done  for  you. 

Vio.  I  know  of  none  ; 

Nor  know  I  you  by  voice,  or  any  feature : 
I  hate  ingratitude  more  in  a  man, 
Than  lying,  vainness,  babbling,  drunkenness, 
Or  any  taint  of  vice,  whose  strong  corruption 
Inhabits  our  frail  blood. 

Ant.  O  heavens  themselves  ! 

2  Off.    Come,  sir,  I  pray  you  go. 

Ant.    Let  me  speak  a  little.     This  youth  that  you 

see  here, 
I  snatched  one  half  out  of  the  jaws  of  death  ; 

Relieved  him  wdth  such  sanctity  of  love, 

And  to  his  image,  which  methought  did  promise 
Most  venerable  wrorth,  did  I  devotion. 

1  Off.    What's  that  to  us  ?      The   time    goes  by ; 
away. 

Ant.    But,  O,  how  vile  an  idol  proves  this  god ! — 
Thou  hast,  Sebastian,  done  good  feature  shame. — 
In  nature  there's  no  blemish,  but  the  mind; 
None  can  be  called  deformed,  but  the  unkind : 
Virtue  is  beauty ;  but  the  beauteous-evil 
Are  empty  trunks,  o'erflourished 1  by  the  devil. 


1  Trunks,  being  then  part  of  the  furniture  of  apartments,  were  orna 
mented  with  scroll  work  orjlourished  devices. 


SC.  IV.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  307 

1  Off.    The  man  grows  mad  ;  away  with  him. 
Come,  come,  sir. 

Ant.    Lead  me  on.  [Exeunt  Officers  ivith  ANT. 

Vio.    Metliinks,  his  words  do  from  such  passion  fly, 
That  he  believes  himself;  so  do  not  I. 
Prove  true,  imagination,  O,  prove  true, 
That  I,  dear  brother,  be  now  ta'en  for  you ! 

Sir  To.  Come  hither,  knight;  come  hither,  Fa 
bian  ;  we'll  whisper  o'er  a  couplet  or  two  of  most 
sage  saws. 

Vio.    He  named  Sebastian  ;  I  my  brother  know 
Yet  living  in  my  glass  ; 1  even  such,  and  so, 
In  favor  was  my  brother ;  and  he  went 
Still  in  this  fashion,  color,  ornament, 
For  him  I  imitate ;  O,  if  it  prove, 
Tempests  are  kind,  and  salt  waves  fresh  in  love ! 

[Exit. 

Sir  To.  A  very  dishonest,  paltry  boy,  and  more  a 
coward  than  a  hare  :  his  dishonesty  appears,  in  leaving 
his  friend  here  in  necessity,  and  denying  him ;  and  for 
his  co wardship,  ask  Fabian. 

Fab.  A  coward,  a  most  devout  coward,  religious 
in  it. 

Sir  And.    'Slid,  I'll  after  him  again,  and  beat  him. 

Sir  To.  Do,  cuff  him  soundly,  but  never  draw  thy 
sword. 

Sir  And.   An  I  do  not.  [Exit. 

Fab.    Come,  let's  see  the  event. 

Sir  To.  I  dare  lay  any  money,  'twill  be  nothing 
yet.  [Exeunt. 

1  His  resemblance  survives  in  the  reflection  of  my  own  figure. 


308  TWELFTH   NIGHT ;  OR,  f ACT  IV. 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Street  before  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN  and  Clown. 

Clo.  Will  you  make  me  believe  that  I  am  not  sent 
for  you  ? 

Seb.    Go  to,  go  to,  thou  art  a  foolish  fellow ; 
Let  me  be  clear  of  thee. 

Clo.  Well  held  out,  i'faith ! — No,  I  do  not  know 
you  ;  nor  I  am  not  sent  to  you  by  my  lady,  to  bid  you 
come  speak  with  her ;  nor  your  name  is  not  master 
Cesario ;  nor  this  is  not  my  nose  neither.  Nothing, 
that  is  so,  is  so. 

Seb.    I  pr'ythee,  vent  thy  folly  somewhere  else ; 
Thou  know'st  not  me. 

Clo.  Vent  my  folly !  He  has  heard  that  word  of 
some  great  man,  and  now  applies  it  to  a  fool.  Vent 
my  folly  !  I  am  afraid  this  great  lubber,  the  world, 
will  prove  a  cockney. — I  pr'ythee  now,  ungird  thy 
strangeness,  and  tell  me  what  I  shall  vent  to  my  lady ; 
Shall  I  vent  to  her,  that  thou  art  coming? 

Seb.    I  pr'ythee,  foolish  Greek,1  depart  from  me  ; 
There's  money  for  thee  ;  if  you  tarry  longer, 
I  shall  give  worse  payment. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  thou  hast  an  open  hand  : — These 
wise  men,  that  give  fools  money,  get  themselves  a  good 
report  after  fourteen  years'  purchase.2 

Enter  SIR  ANDREW,  SIR  TOBY,  and  FABIAN. 

Sir  And.  Now,  sir,  have  I  met  you  again  ?  there's 
for  you.  [Striking  SEBASTIAN. 

1  A  merry  Greek,  or  a  foolish  Greek,  were  ancient  proverbial  expressions 
applied  to  boon  companions,  good  fellows,  as  they  were  called,  who  spent 
their  time  in  riotous  mirth. 

2  i.  e.  at  a  very  extravagant  price,  twelve  years'  purchase  being  then 
the  current  price  of  estates. 


SC.  1.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  309 

Seb.  Why,  there's  for  thee,  and  there,  and  there  : 
are  all  the  people  mad !  [Beating  SIR  ANDREW. 

Sir  To.  Hold,  sir,  or  I'll  throw  your  dagger  o'er  the 
house. 

Clo.  This  will  I  tell  my  lady  straight ;  I  would  not 
be  in  some  of  your  coats  for  two-pence.  [Exit  Clown. 

Sir  To.    Come  on,  sir ;  hold.    [Holding  SEBASTIAN. 

Sir  And.  Nay,  let  him  alone ;  I'll  go  another  way 
to  work  with  him  ;  I'll  have  an  action  of  battery  against 
him,  if  there  be  any  law  in  Illyria :  though  I  struck 
him  first,  yet  it's  no  matter  for  that. 

Seb.    Let  go  thy  hand. 

Sir  To.  Come,  sir,  I  will  not  let  you  go.  Come, 
my  young  soldier,  put  up  your  iron :  you  are  well 
fleshed ;  come  on. 

Seb.    I  will  be  free  from  thee.     What  would'st  thou 

now  ? 
If  thou  dar'st  tempt  me  further,  draw  thy  sword. 

[Draws. 

Sir  To.  What,  what !  Nay,  then  I  must  have  an 
ounce  or  two  of  this  malapert  blood  from  you. 

[Draws. 

Enter  OLIVIA. 

Oli.    Hold,  Toby ;  on  thy  life,  I  charge  thee,  hold. 

Sir  To.   Madam ! 

Oli.    Will  it  be  ever  thus  ?     Ungracious  wretch, 
Fit  for  the  mountains  and  the  barbarous  caves, 
Where  manners  ne'er  were  preached  !  out  of  my  sight ! 

Be  not  offended,  dear  Cesario  : 

Rudesby,1  be  gone : — I  pr'ythee,  gentle  friend, 

[Exeunt  SIR  TOBY,  SIR  ANDREW,  and  FABIAN. 
Let  thy  fair  wisdom,  not  thy  passion,  sway 
In  this  uncivil  and  unjust  extent2 
Against  thy  peace.     Go  with  me  to  my  house  ; 
And  hear  thou  there  how  many  fruitless  pranks 
This  ruffian  hath  botched  up,  that  thou  thereby 

1  Rude  fellow. 

2  The  name  of  a  writ  of  execution,  here  used  as  synonymous  with 
violence. 


310  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  IV. 

Maj'st  smile  at  this :  thou  shalt  not  choose  but  go ; 
Do  not  deny:  beshrew1  his  soul  for  me, 
He  started  one  poor  heart 3  of  mine  in  thee. 

Seb.    What  relish  is  in  this  ?  how  runs  the  stream  ? 
Or  I  am  mad,  or  else  this  is  a  dream : — 
Let  fancy  still  my  sense  in  Lethe  steep ; 
If  it  be  thus  to  dream,  still  let  me  sleep ! 

OIL    Nay,   come,   I    pr'ythee :    would   thoud'st   be 
ruled  by  me ! 

Seb.    Madam,  I  will. 

OIL  O,  say  so,  and  so  be ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  MARIA  and  Clown. 

Mar.  Nay,  I  pr'ythee,  put  on  this  gown,  and  this 
beard ;  make  him  believe  thou  art  Sir  Topas  the 
curate ;  do  it  quickly :  I'll  call  Sir  Toby  the  whilst. 

[Exit  MARIA. 

Clo.  Well,  I'll  put  it  on,  and  I  will  dissemble  my 
self  in't ;  and  I  would  I  were  the  first  that  ever  dis 
sembled  in  such  a  gown.  I  am  not  tall3  enough  to 
become  the  function  well :  nor  lean  enough  to  be 

O 

thought  a  good  student :  but  to  be  said,  an  honest 
man,  and  a  good  housekeeper,  goes  as  fairly  as  to  say, 
a  careful  man,  and  a  great  scholar.  The  competitors4 
enter. 

Enter  SIR  TOBY  BELCH  and  MARIA. 

Sir  To.    Jove  bless  thee,  master  parson. 

Clo.  Bonos  dies,  Sir  Toby :  for  as  the  old  hermit 
of  Prague,  that  never  saw  pen  and  ink,  very  wittily 
said  to  a  niece  of  king  Gorboduc,  That,  that  is,  is :  so 

1  111  betide. 

2  An  equivoque  is  here  intended  between  hart  and  heart :  they  were 
formerly  written  alike. 

3  The  modern  editors  have  changed  this  to  fat  without  any  apparent 
reason. 

4  Confederates. 


SC.  II.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  311 

I,  being  master  parson,  am  master  parson.  For  what 
is  that,  but  that  ?  and  is,  but  is  ? 

Sir  To.    To  him,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.    What,  hoa,  I  say ; — peace  in  this  prison  ! 

Sir  To.  The  knave  counterfeits  well :  a  good 
knave. 

Mai.  [In  an  inner  chamber.']    Who  calls  there  ? 

Clo.  Sir  Topas  the  curate,  who  comes  to  visit  Mal- 
volio  the  lunatic. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas,  good  Sir  Topas,  go  to 
my  lady. 

Clo.  Out,  hyperbolical  fiend  !  how  vexest  thou  this 
man  ?  talkest  thou  nothing  but  of  ladies  ? 

Sir  To.    Well  said,  master  parson. 

Mai.  Sir  Topas,  never  was  man  thus  wronged : 
good  Sir  Topas,  do  not  think  I  am  mad :  they  have 
laid  me  here  in  hideous  darkness. 

Clo.  Fie,  thou  dishonest  Sathan !  I  call  thee  by 
the  most  modest  terms ;  for  I  am  one  of  those  gentle 
ones,  that  will  use  the  devil  himself  with  courtesy : 
sav'st  thou,  that  house  is  dark  ? 

Mai.    As  hell,  Sir  Topas. 

Clo.  Why,  it  hath  bay-windows !  transparent  as 
barricadoes,  and  the  clear  stories 2  towards  the  south- 
north  are  as  lustrous  as  ebony ;  arid  yet  complainest 
thou  of  obstruction  ? 

Mai.  I  am  not  mad,  Sir  Topas :  I  say  to  you,  this 
house  is  dark. 

Clo.  Madman,  thou  errest :  I  say,  there  is  no  dark 
ness,  but  ignorance ;  in  which  thou  art  more  puzzled 
than  the  Egyptians  in  their  fog. 

Mai.  I  say,  this  house  is  as  dark  as  ignorance, 
though  ignorance  were  as  dark  as  hell ;  and  I  say, 
there  was  never  man  thus  abused :  I  am  no  more  mad 


1  Bay  windows  were  what  are  now  called  bow  windows. 

2  Clear  stories,  in  Gothic  architecture,  denote  the  row  of  windows  run 
ning  along  the  upper  part  of  a  lofty  hall  or  of  a  church,  over  the  arches  of 
the  nave.     The  first  folio  reads  clear  stores,  the  second  folio  clear  stones, 
which  was  followed  by  all  subsequent  editors.     The  emendation  and  ex 
planation  are  Mr.  Blakeway's. 


312  TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  IV, 

than  you   are ;  make   the   trial  of  it  in  any  constant 
question.1 

Clo.  What  is  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras  concerning 
wild-fowl  ? 

Mai.  That  the  soul  of  our  grandam  might  haply 
inhabit  a  bird. 

Clo.    What  thinkest  thou  of  his  opinion  ? 

Mai.  I  think  nobly  of  the  soul,  and  no  way  approve 
his  opinion. 

Clo.  Fare  thee  well :  remain  thou  still  in  darkness  : 
thou  shalt  hold  the  opinion  of  Pythagoras,  ere  I  will 
allow  of  thy  wits ;  and  fear  to  kill  a  woodcock,2  lest 
thou  dispossess  the  soul  of  thy  grandam.  Fare  thee 
well. 

Mai.    Sir  Topas,  Sir  Topas, — 

Sir  To.   My  most  exquisite  Sir  Topas ! 

Clo.   Nay,  I  am  for  all  waters.3 

Mar.  Thou  might'st  have  done  this  without  thy 
beard  and  gown ;  he  sees  thee  not. 

Sir  To.  To  him  in  thine  own  voice,  and  bring  me 
word  how  thou  findest  him ;  I  would  we  were  well 
rid  of  this  knavery.  If  he  may  be  conveniently  deliv 
ered,  I  would  he  were ;  for  I  am  now  so  far  in  offence 
with  my  niece,  that  I  cannot  pursue  with  any  safety 
this  sport  to  the  upshot.  Come  by  and  by  to  my 
chamber.  [Exeunt  SIR  TOBY  and  MARIA. 

Clo.    Hey  Robin,  jolly  Robing 

Tell  me  how  thy  lady  does.  [Singing. 

Mai.   Fool , — 

Clo.    My  lady  is  unkind,  perdy. 

Mai.   Fool, — 

Clo.   Alas,  why  is  she  so  f 

Mai.    Fool,  I  say  ; — 


1  Regular  conversation. 

2  The  clown  mentions  a  woodcock  because  it  was  proverbial  as  a  fool 
ish  bird,  and  therefore  a  proper  ancestor  for  a  man  out  of  his  wits. 

3  A  proverbial  phrase  not  yet  satisfactorily  explained.     The  meaning1, 
however,  appears  to  be,  "  I  can  turn  my  hand  to  any  thing,  or  assume  any 
character." 

4  This  ballad  may  be  found  in  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry, 
Vol.  i.  p.  194,  ed.  1794. 


SC.  II.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  313 

Clo.    She  loves  another — Who  calls,  ha  ? 

Mai.  Good  fool,  as  ever  thou  wilt  deserve  well  at 
my  hand,  help  me  to  a  candle,  and  pen,  ink,  and 
paper ;  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will  live  to  be  thankful 
to  thee  for't. 

Clo.    Master  Malvolio ! 

Mai.    Ay,  good  fool. 

Clo.    Alas,  sir,  how  fell  you  besides  your  five  wits  ? 

Mai.  Fool,  there  was  never  man  so  notoriously 
abused :  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits,  fool,  as  thou  art. 

Clo.  But  as  well  ?  then  you  are  mad,  indeed,  if  you 
be  no  better  in  your  wits  than  a  fool. 

Mai.  They  have  here  propertied  me ; *-  keep  me  in 
darkness,  send  ministers  to  me,  asses,  and  do  all  they 
can  to  face  me  out  of  my  wits. 

Clo.  Advise  you  what  you  say:  the  minister  is 
here, — Malvolio,  Malvolio,  thy  wits  the  heavens  re 
store  !  endeavor  thyself  to  sleep,  and  leave  thy  vain 
bibble  babble. 

Mai.    Sir  Topas, 

Clo.  Maintain  no  words  with  him,  good  fellow.2 
— Who,  I,  sir  ?  not  I,  sir.  God  b'wi'you,  good  Sir 
Topas. — Marry,  amen. — I  will,  sir,  I  will. 

Mai.   Fool,  fool,  fool,  I  say. — 

Clo.  Alas,  sir,  be  patient.  What  say  you,  sir  ?  I 
am  shent3  for  speaking  to  you. 

Mai.  Good  fool,  help  me  to  some  light,  and  some 
paper ;  I  tell  thee,  I  am  as  well  in  my  wits  as  any 
man  in  Illyria. 

Clo.   Well-a-day, — that  you  were,  sir ! 

Mai.  By  this  hand,  I  am :  Good  fool,  some  ink, 
paper,  and  light,  and  convey  what  I  will  set  down  to 
my  lady ;  it  shall  advantage  thee  more  than  ever  the 
bearing  of  letter  did. 

Clo.  I  will  help  you  to't.  But  tell  me  true,  are 
you  not  mad,  indeed  ?  or  do  you  but  counterfeit  ? 

1  Taken  possession  of. 

2  The  clown,  in  the  dark,  acts  two  persons,  and  counterfeits,  by  vari 
ation  of  voice,  a  dialogue  between  himself  and  Sir  Topas. 

3  Scolded,  reprimanded. 

VOL.  i.  40 


314  TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  IV. 

Mai.    Believe  me,  I  am  not ;  I  tell  thee  true. 

Clo.  Nay,  I'll  ne'er  believe  a  madman  till  I  see  his 
brains.  I  will  fetch  you  light,  and  paper,  and  ink. 

Mai.  Fool,  I'll  requite  it  in  the  highest  degree : 
pr'ythee,  begone. 

Clo.          I  am  gone,  sir, 

And  anon,  sir, 
ril  be  with  you  again, 

In  a  trice ; 

Like  to  the  old  vice,1 
Your  need  to  sustain ; 

Who  with  dagger  of  lath, 
In  his  rage  and  his  wrath, 

Cries  Ah,  ha !  to  the  devil ; 
Like  a  mad  lad, 
Pare  thy  nails,  dad, 

Adieu,  good-man  devil.  [Exit, 

SCENE  III.     Olivia's  Garden. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.    This  is  the  air ;  that  is  the  glorious  sun  ; 
This  pearl  she  gave  me,  I  do  feel't  and  see't : 
And  though  'tis  wonder  that  enwraps  me  thus, 
Yet  'tis  not  madness.     Where's  Antonio  then  ? 
I  could  not  find  him  at  the  Elephant : 
Yet  there  he  was ;  and  there  I  found  this  credit,2 
That  he  did  range  the  town  to  seek  me  out. 
His  counsel  now  might  do  me  golden  service : 
For  though  my  soul  disputes  well  with  my  sense, 
That  this  may  be  some  error,  but  no  madness, 
Yet  doth  this  accident  and  flood  of  fortune 
So  far  exceed  all  instance,  all  discourse, 
That  I  am  ready  to  distrust  mine  eyes, 
And  wrangle  with  my  reason,  that  persuades  me 
To  any  other  trust,  but  that  I  am  mad, 

1  The  vice  was  the  fool  of  the  old  moralities.        ~  i.  e.  intelligence. 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  315 

Or  else  the  lady's  mad ;  yet,  if  'twere  so, 
She  could  not  sway  her  house,  command  her  followers. 
Take,  and  give  back  affairs,  and  their  despatch, 
With  such  a  smooth,  discreet,  and  stable  bearing, 
As,  I  perceive,  she  does :  there's  something  in't 
That  is  deceivable.     But  here  the  lady  comes. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  a  Priest. 

OIL    Blame  not  this  haste  of  mine :  If  you  rriean 

well, 

Now,  go  with  me,  and  with  this  holy  man, 
Into  the  chantry 1  by :  there,  before  him, 
And  underneath  that  consecrated  roof, 
Plight  me  the  full  assurance  of  your  faith ; 
That  my  most  jealous  and  too  doubtful  soul 
May  live  at  peace :  he  shall  conceal  it, 
Whiles2  you  are  willing  it  shall  come  to  note ; 
What  time  we  will  our  celebration  keep 
According  to  my  birth.     What  do  you  say  ? 

Seb.    I'll  follow  this  good  man,  and  go  with  you ; 
And,  having  sworn  truth,  ever  will  be  true. 

OIL    Then  lead  the  way,   good  father : and 

heavens  so  shine, 
That  they  may  fairly  note  this  act  of  mine  !     [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     The  Street  before  Olivia's  House. 

Enter  Clown  and  FABIAN. 

Fab.   Now,  as  thou  lovest  me,  let  me  see  his  letter. 
Clo.    Good  master  Fabian,  grant  me  another  request. 


1  " 


Chantry"  a  little  chapel,  or  particular  altar  in  some  cathedral  or 
parochial  church,  endowed  for  the  purpose  of  having  masses  sung  therein 
for  " 


for  the  souls  of  the  founders. 
2  Until. 


316  TWELFTH   NIGHT;  OR,  [ACT  V. 

Fab.    Any  thing. 

Clo.    Do  not  desire  to  see  this  letter. 
Fab.    That  is,  to  give  a  dog,  and,  in  recompense, 
desire  my  dog  again. 

Enter  Duke,  VIOLA,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.    Belong  you  to  the  lady  Olivia,  friends  ? 

Clo.    Ay,  sir  ;  we  are  some  of  her  trappings. 

Duke.  I  know  thee  well :  How  dost  thou,  my  good 
fellow  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  the  better  for  my  foes,  and  the 
worse  for  my  friends. 

Duke.    Just  the  contrary ;  the  better  for  thy  friends. 

Clo.   No,  sir,  the  worse. 

Duke.    How  can  that  be  ? 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  they  praise  me,  and  make  an  ass 
of  me ;  now  my  foes  tell  me  plainly  I  am  an  ass :  so 
that  by  my  foes,  sir,  I  profit  in  the  knowledge  of  my 
self;  and  by  my  friends  I  am  abused:  so  that,  conclu 
sions  to  be  as  kisses,  if  your  four  negatives  make  your 
two  affirmatives,  why,  then  the  worse  for  my  friends, 
and  the  better  for  my  foes. 

Duke.    Why,  this  is  excellent. 

Clo.  By  my  troth,  sir,  no ;  though  it  please  you  to 
be  one  of  my  friends. 

Duke.  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  worse  for  me  ;  there's 
gold. 

Clo.  But  that  it  would  be  double-dealing,  sir,  I 
would  you  could  make  it  another. 

Duke.    O,  you  give  me  ill  counsel. 

Clo.  Put  your  grace  in  your  pocket,  sir,  for  this 
once,  and  let  your  flesh  and  blood  obey  it. 

Duke.  Well,  I  will  be  so  much  a  sinner  to  be  a 
louble-dealer ;  there's  another. 

Clo.  Primo,  secundo,  tertio,  is  a  good  play;  and 
the  old  saying  is,  the  third  pays  for  all ;  the  triplex,  sir, 
is  a  good  tripping  measure  ;  or  the  bells  of  St.  Bennet, 
sir,  may  put  you  in  mind ;  one,  two,  three. 

Duke.    You  can  fool  no  more  money  out  of  me  at 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  317 

this  throw :  if  you  will  let  your  lady  know  I  am  here 
to  speak  with  her,  and  bring  her  along  with  you,  it 
may  awake  my  bounty  further. 

Clo.  Marry,  sir,  lullaby  to  your  bounty,  till  I  come 
again.  I  go,  sir ;  but  I  would  not  have  you  to  think 
that  my  desire  of  having  is  the  sin  of  covetousness ; 
but,  as  you  say,  sir,  let  your  bounty  take  a  nap ;  I  will 
awake  it  anon.  [Exit  Clown. 

Enter  ANTONIO  and  Officers. 

Vio.    Here  comes  the  man,  sir,  that  did  rescue  me. 

Duke.    That  face  of  his  I  do  remember  well ; 
Yet,  when  I  saw  it  last,  it  was  besmeared 
As  black  as  Vulcan,  in  the  smoke  of  war : 
A  bawbling  vessel  was  he  captain  of, 
For  shallow  draught,  and  bulk,  unprizable ; 
With  which  such  scathful 1  grapple  did  he  make 
With  the  most  noble  bottom  of  our  fleet, 
That  very  envy,  and  the  tongue  of  loss, 
Cried  fame  and  honor  on  him. — What's  the  matter  ? 

1  Off.    Orsino,  this  is  that  Antonio 
That  took  the  Phoenix  and  her  fraught,2  from  Candy; 
And  this  is  he  that  did  the  Tiger  board, 
When  your  young  nephew  Titus  lost  his  leg : 
Here  in  the  streets,  desperate  of  shame  and  state,3 
In  private  brabble  did  we  apprehend  him. 

Vio.    He  did  me  kindness,  sir ;  drew  on  my  side  ; 
But,  in  conclusion,  put  strange  speech  upon  me, 
[  know  not  what  'twas,  but  distraction. 

Duke.    Notable  pirate!  thou  salt-water  thief! 
What  foolish  boldness  brought  thee  to  their  mercies, 
Whom  thou,  in  terms  so  bloody,  and  so  dear, 
Hast  made  thine  enemies  ? 

Ant.  Orsino,  noble  sir, 

Be  pleased  that  I  shake  off  these  names  you  give  me 
Antonio  never  yet  was  thief,  or  pirate, 


Destructive.  2  Freight 

3  Inattentive  to  his  character  or  condition,  like  a  desperate  man. 


318  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  V. 

Though,  I  confess,  on  base  and  ground  enough, 

Orsino's  enemy.     A  witchcraft  drew  me  hither : 

That  most  ingrateful  boy  there,  by  your  side, 

From  the  rude  sea's  enraged  and  foamy  mouth 

Did  I  redeem  :  a  wreck  past  hope  he  was  : 

His  life  I  gave  him,  and  did  thereto  add 

My  love,  without  retention  or  restraint, 

All  his  in  dedication  :  for  his  sake 

Did  I  expose  myself,  pure  for  his  love, 

Into  the  danger  of  this  adverse  town  ; 

Drew7  to  defend  him,  when  he  was  beset ; 

Where  being  apprehended,  his  false  cunning 

(Not  meaning  to  partake  with  me  in  danger) 

Taught  him  to  face  me  out  of  his  acquaintance, 

And  grew  a  twenty-years-removed  thing, 

While  one  would  wink ;  denied  me  mine  own  purse, 

Which  I  had  recommended  to  his  use 

Not  half  an  hour  before. 

Vio.  How  can  this  be  ? 

Duke.    When  came  he  to  this  town  ? 

Ant.    To-day,  my  lord  ;  and  for  three  months  before, 
(No  interim,  not  a  minute's  vacancy,) 
Both  day  and  night,  did  we  keep  company. 

Enter  OLIVIA  and  Attendants. 

Duke.    Here  comes  the  countess  ;  now  heaven  walks 

on  earth. 

But  for  thee,  fellow,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness  : 
Three  months  this  youth  hath  tended  upon  me  ; 
But  more  of  that  anon. Take  him  aside. 

OIL    What  would  my  lord,  but  that  he  may  not  have, 
Wherein  Olivia  may  seem  serviceable  ? — 
Cesario,  you  do  not  keep  promise  with  me. 

Vio.    Madam? 

Duke.    Gracious  Olivia, 

OIL    What  do  you  say,  Cesario  ? Good  my 

lord, 

Vio.    My  lord  would  speak ;    my  duty  hushes  me. 

Oli.    If  it  be  aught  to  the  old  tune,  my  lord, 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  319 

It  is  as  fat l  and  fulsome  to  mine  ear, 
As  howling  after  music. 

Duke.  Still  so  cruel  ? 

Oil.    Still  so  constant,  lord. 

Duke.   What!      To    perverseness ?      You    uncivil 

lady, 

To  whose  ingrate  and  unauspicious  altars 
My  soul  the  iaithfulPst  offerings  hath  breathed  out, 
That  e'er  devotion  tendered  !     What  shall  I  do  ? 

OIL    Even  what  it  please  my  lord,  that  shall  be 
come  him. 

Duke.    Why  should  I  not,  had  I  the  heart  to  do  it, 
Like  the  Egyptian  thief,2  at  point  of  death, 
Kill  what  1  love  ;  a  savage  jealousy, 
That  sometimes  savors  nobly  ? — But  hear  me  this  : 
Since  you  to  non-regardance  cast  my  faith, 
And  that  I  partly  know  the  instrument 
That  screws  me  from  my  true  place  in  your  favor, 
Live  you,  the  marble-breasted  tyrant,  still ; 
But  this  your  minion,  whom,  I  know,  you  love, 
And  whom,  by  heaven,  I  swear,  I  tender  dearly, 
Him  will  I  tear  out  of  that  cruel  eye, 
Where  he  sits  crowned  in  his  master's  spite. — 
Come,  boy,  with  me ;  my  thoughts  are  ripe  in  mis 
chief: 

I'll  sacrifice  the  lamb  that  I  do  love, 
To  spite  a  raven's  heart  within  a  dove.  [Going. 

Vio.    And  I,  most  jocund,  apt,  and  willingly, 
To  do  you  rest,  a  thousand  deaths  would  die. 

[Following. 

OIL    Where  goes  Cesario  ? 

Vio.  After  him  I  love, 

More  than  I  love  these  eyes,  more  than  my  life, 
More,  by  all  mores,  than  e'er  I  shall  love  wife : 
If  I  do  feign,  you  witnesses  above, 
Punish  my  life  for  tainting  of  my  love  ! 

OIL    Ah  me,  detested  !  how  am  I  beguiled  ! 

1  Dull,  gross. 

2  This  Egyptian  Thief  was  Thy  amis.     The  story  is  related  in  the 
/Ethiopics  of  Heliodorus. 


320  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  V. 

Vio.    Who  does  beguile  you  ?     Who  does  do  you 
wrong  ? 

Oli.    Hast  thou  forgot  thyself!     Is  it  so  long ! — 
Call  forth  the  holy  father.  [Exit  an  Attendant. 

Duke.  Come  away.     [To  VIOLA. 

Oli.    Whither,  my  lord? — Cesario,  husband,  stay! 

Duke.    Husband ! 

Oli.  Ay,  husband  ;  can  he  that  deny  ? 

Duke.    Her  husband,  sirrah  ? 

Vio.  No,  my  lord,  not  1 

Oli.    Alas,  it  is  the  baseness  of  thy  fear, 
That  makes  thee  strangle  thy  propriety : T 
Fear  not,  Cesario  ;  take  thy  fortunes  up  ; 
Be  that  thou  know'st  thou  art,  and  then  thou  art 
As  great  as  that  thou  fear'st. — O,  welcome,  father ! 

Re-enter  Attendant  and  Priest. 

Father,  I  charge  thee  by  thy  reverence, 
Here  to  unfold  (though  lately  we  intended 
To  keep  in  darkness  wrhat  occasion  now 
Reveals  before  'tis  ripe)  what  thou  dost  know 
Hath  newly  passed  between  this  youth  and  me. 

Priest.    A  contract  of  eternal  bond  of  love, 
Confirmed  by  mutual  joinder  of  your  hands, 
Attested  by  the  holy  close  of  lips, 
Strengthened  by  interchangement  of  your  rings  ; 
And  all  the  ceremony  of  this  compact 
Sealed  in  my  function,  by  my  testimony : 
Since  when,  my  watch  hath  told  me,  toward  my  grave 
I  have  travelled  but  two  hours. 

Duke.    O,    thou    dissembling    cub!      What    wilt 

thou  be, 

When  time  hath  sowed  a  grizzle  on  thy  case  ?  2 
Or  will  not  else  thy  craft  so  quickly  grow, 
That  thine  own  trip  shall  be  thine  overthrow  ? 
Farewell,  and  take  her ;  but  direct  thy  feet, 
Where  thou  and  I  henceforth  may  never  meet. 

Vio.   My  lord,  I  do  protest, — 

1  i.  e.  suppress,  or  disown  thy  property. 

2  This  word  appears  to  be  used  contemptuously  for  skin. 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  321 

Oli.  O,  do  not  swear ; 

Hold  little  faith,  though  thou  hast  too  much  fear. 

Enter  SIR  ANDREW  AGUE-CHEEK,  with  his  head  broke. 

Sir  And.  For  the  love  of  God,  a  surgeon ;  send 
one  presently  to  Sir  Toby. 

Oli.    What's  the  matter  ? 

Sir  And.  He  has  broke  my  head  across,  and  has 
given  Sir  Toby  a  bloody  coxcomb  too :  for  the  love  of 
God,  j'our  help :  I  had  rather  than  forty  pound,  I  were 
at  home. 

Oli.   Who  has  done  this,  Sir  Andrew  ? 

Sir  And.  The  count's  gentleman,  one  Cesario :  we 
took  him  for  a  coward,  but  he's  the  very  devil  incar- 
dinate. 

Duke.   My  gentleman,  Cesario  ? 

Sir  And.  Od's  lifelings,  here  he  is : — You  broke 
my  head  for  nothing ;  and  that  that  I  did,  I  was  set 
on  to  do't  by  Sir  Toby. 

Vio.    Why  do  you  speak  to  me  ?     I  never  hurt  you : 
You  drew  your  sword  upon  me,  without  cause ; 
But  I  bespake  you  fair,  and  hurt  you  not. 

Sir  And.  If  a  bloody  coxcomb  be  a  hurt,  you  have 
hurt  me ;  I  think  you  set  nothing  by  a  bloody  cox 
comb. 

Enter  SIR  TOBY  BELCH,  drunk,  led  by  the  Clown. 

Here  comes  Sir  Toby  halting ;  you  shall  hear  more : 
but  if  he  had  not  been  in  drink,  he  would  have  tickled 
you  othergates *  than  he  did. 

Duke.    How  now,  gentleman  ?     How  is't  with  you  ? 

Sir  To.  That's  all  one  ;  he  has  hurt  me,  and  there's 
an  end  on't. — Sot,  didst  see  Dick  surgeon,  sot  ? 

Clo.  O,  he's  drunk,  Sir  Toby,  an  hour  agone ;  his 
eyes  were  set  at  eight  i'  the  morning. 

Sir  To.  Then  he's  a  rogue  and  a  passy-measures 
pavin  ;  2  I  hate  a  drunken  rogue. 

1  Otherwise.  2  The  pavin  was  a  grave  Spanish  dance. 

VOL.    I.  41 


TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  V. 

OIL    Away  with  him :  who  hath  made  this  havoc 
with  them  ? 

Sir  And.    I'll  help  you,  Sir  Toby,  because  we'll  be 
dressed  together. 

Sir  To.    Will  you  help  ? — An  ass-head,  and  a  cox 
comb,  and  a  knave  ?     A  thin-faced  knave,  a  gull  ? 

Oil.    Get  him  to  bed,  and  let  his  hurt  be  looked  to. 
[Exeunt  Clown,  SIR  TOBY,  and  SIR  ANDREW. 

Enter  SEBASTIAN. 

Seb.    I  am  sorry,  madam,  I  have  hurt  your  kinsman ; 
But,  had  it  been  the  brother  of  my  blood, 
I  must  have  done  no  less,  with  wit  and  safety. 
You  throw  a  strange  regard  upon  me,  and 
By  that  I  do  perceive  it  hath  offended  you ; 
Pardon  me,  sweet  one,  even  for  the  vows 
We  made  each  other  but  so  late  ago. 

Duke.    One   face,   one  voice,   one   habit,   and    two 

persons ; 
A  natural  perspective,1  that  is,  and  is  not. 

Seb.    Antonio !  O,  my  dear  Antonio, 
How  have  the  hours  racked  and  tortured  me, 
Since  I  have  lost  thce  ! 

Ant.    Sebastian  are  you  ? 

Seb.  Fear'st  thou  that,  Antonio  ? 

Ant.    How  have  you  made  division  of  yourself? — 
An  apple,  cleft  in  two,  is  not  more  twin 
Than  these  tAvo  creatures.     Which  is  Sebastian  ? 

OH.    Most  wonderful ! 

Seb.    Do  I  stand  there  ?  I  never  had  a  brother  ; 
Nor  can  there  be  that  deity  in  my  nature, 
Of  here  and  every  where.      I  had  a  sister, 
Whom  the  blind  waves  and  surges  have  devoured  :— 
Of  charity,2  what  kin  are  you  to  me  ?  [To  VIOLA. 

What  countryman  ?     What  name  ?     What  parentage  ? 

Vio.    Of  Messaline  :  Sebastian  was  my  father  ; 
Such  a  Sebastian  was  my  brother  too, 

1  A  perspective   formerly  meant  a   glass   that   assisted  the  sight  in 
any  way. 

2  In  charity,  tell  me. 


SC.  1.]  WHAT  YOU  WILL.  323 

So  went  he  suited  to  his  watery  tomb : 
If  spirits  can  assume  both  form  and  suit, 
You  come  to  fright  us. 

Seb.  A  spirit  I  am,  indeed ; 

But  am  in  that  dimension  grossly  clad, 
Which  from  the  womb  I  did  participate. 
Were  you  a  woman,  as  the  rest  goes  even, 
I  should  my  tears  let  fall  upon  your  cheek, 
And  say — Thrice  welcome,  drowned  Viola ! 

Vio.    My  father  had  a  mole  upon  his  brow. 

Seb.    And  so  had  mine. 

Vio.    And  died  that  day  when  Viola  from  her  birth 
Had  numbered  thirteen  years. 

Seb.    O,  that  record  is  lively  in  my  soul ! 
He  finished,  indeed,  his  mortal  act, 
That  day  that  made  my  sister  thirteen  years. 

Vio.    If  nothing  lets 1  to  make  us  happy  both, 
But  this  my  masculine  usurped  attire, 
Do  not  embrace  me,  till  each  circumstance 
Of  place,  time,  fortune,  do  cohere,  and  jump, 
That  I  am  Viola ;  which  to  confirm, 
I'll  bring  you  to  a  captain  in  this  town, 
Where  lie  my  maiden  weeds ;  by  whose  gentle  help 
I  was  preserved,  to  serve  this  noble  count : 
All  the  occurrence  of  my  fortune  since 
Hath  been  between  this  lady  and  this  lord. 

Seb.    So  comes  it,  lady,  you  have  been  mistook : 

[To  OLIVIA. 

But  nature  to  her  bias  drew7  in  that. 
You  would  have  been  contracted  to  a  maid ; 
Now  are  you  therein,  by  my  life,  deceived  ; 
You  are  betrothed  both  to  a  maid  and  man. 

Duke.    Be  not  amazed  ;  right  noble  is  his  blood. — 
If  this  be  so,  as  yet  the  glass  seems  true, 
I  shall  have  share  in  this  most  happy  wreck : 
Boy,  thou  hast  said  to  me  a  thousand  times, 

[To  VIOLA 
Thou  never  shouldst  love  woman  like  to  me. 

1  Hinders. 


324  TWELFTH  NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  V 

Vio.    And  all  those  sayings  will  1  overswear  ; 
And  all  those  swearings  keep  as  true  in  soul, 
As  doth  that  orbed  continent  the  fire 
That  severs  day  from  night. 

Duke.  Give  me  thy  hand ; 

And  let  me  see  thee  in  thy  woman's  weeds. 

Vio.    The  captain,  that  did  bring  me  first  on  shore, 
Hath  my  maid's  garments :  he,  upon  some  action, 
Is  now  in  durance,  at  Malvolio's  suit, 
A  gentleman  and  follower  of  my  lady's. 

Oli.    He  shall  enlarge  him  : — fetch  Malvolio  hither  • 
And  yet,  alas,  now  I  remember  me, 
They  say,  poor  gentleman,  he's  much  distract. 

Re-enter  Clown,  with  a  letter. 

A  most  extracting 1  frenzy  of  mine  own 
From  my  remembrance  clearly  banished  his. — 
How  does  he,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.  Truly,  madam,  he  holds  Beelzebub  at  the 
stave's  end,  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  case  may  do ;  he 
has  here  writ  a  letter  to  you ;  I  should  have  given  it  to 
you  to-day  morning ;  but  as  a  madman's  epistles  are 
no  gospels,  so  it  skills  not  much  when  they  are  de 
livered. 

Oli.    Open  it,  and  read  it. 

Clo.  Look  then  to  be  well  edified,  when  the  fool 
delivers  the  madman. — By  the  Lord,  madam, — 

Oli.    How  now  !  art  thou  mad  ? 

Clo.  No,  madam,  I  do  but  read  madness ;  an  your 
ladyship  will  have  it  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  must 
allow  vox.~ 

Oli.    Pr'ythee,  read  i'  thy  right  wits. 

Clo.  So  I  do,  madonna ;  but  to  read  his  right  wits, 
is  to  read  thus :  therefore  perpend,3  my  princess,  and 
give  ear. 

Oli.    Read  it  you,  sirrah.  [To  FABIAN. 


1  i.  e.  a  frenzy  that  drew  me  away  from  every  thing  but  its  object 

2  This  may  be  explained:  "If  you  would  have  the  letter  read  in  char 
acter,  you  must  allow  me  to  assume  the  voice  or  frantic  tone  of  a  madman." 

3  Consider. 


SC.  I.]  WHAT   YOU  WILL.  325 

Fab.  [Reads.]  By  the  Lord,  madam,  you  ivrong  me, 
and  the  world  shall  know  it :  though  you  have  put  me 
into  darkness,  and  given  your  drunken  cousin  rule  over 
me,  yet  have  I  the  benefit  of  my  senses  as  well  as  your 
ladyship.  I  have  your  own  letter  that  induced  me  to 
the  semblance  I  put  on ;  with  the  which  I  doubt  not 
but  to  do  myself  much  right,  or  you  much  shame.  Think 
of  me  as  you  please.  I  leave  my  duty  a  little  unthought 
of,  and  speak  out  of  my  injury. 

The  madly-used  Malvolio. 

Oli.    Did  he  write  this  ? 

Clo.    Ay,  madam. 

Duke.    This  savors  not  much  of  distraction. 

Oli.    See  him  delivered,  Fabian  ;  bring  him  hither. 

[Exit  FABIAN. 

My  lord,  so  please  you,  these  things  further  thought  on, 
To  think  me  as  well  a  sister  as  a  wife, 
One  day  shall  crown  the  alliance  on't,  so  please  you, 
Here  at  my  house,  and  at  my  proper  cost. 

Duke.   Madam,    I   am  most  apt  to  embrace  your 

offer. — 

Your  master  quits  you  [To  VIOLA]  ;  and,  for  your  ser 
vice  done  him, 

So  much  against  the  mettle  of  your  sex, 
So  far  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
And  since  you  called  me  master  for  so  long, 
Here  is  my  hand ;  you  shall  from  this  time  be 
Your  master's  mistress. 

Oli.  A  sister  ? — You  are  she. 

Re-enter  FABIAN,  with  MALVOLIO. 

Duke.    Is  this  the  madman  ? 

Oli.  Ay,  my  lord,  this  same : 

How  now,  Malvolio  ? 

Mai.  Madam,  you  have  done  me  wrong, 

Notorious  wrong. 

Oli.  Havel,  Malvolio?     No. 

Mai.    Lady,   you   have.      Pray   you,    peruse    that 

letter : 
You  must  not  now  deny  it  is  your  hand : 


326  TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  [ACT  V. 

Write  from  it,  if  you  can,  in  hand,  or  phrase ; 
Or  say  'tis  not  your  seal,  nor  your  invention : 
You  can  say  none  of  this :  well,  grant  it  then, 
And  tell  me,  in  the  modesty  of  honor, 
Why  you  have  given  me  such  clear  lights  of  favor  ; 
Bade  me  come  smiling,  and  cross-gartered  to  you, 
To  put  on  yellow  stockings,  and  to  frown 
Upon  Sir  Toby,  and  the  lighter1  people ; 
And,  acting  this  in  an  obedient  hope, 
Why  have  you  suffered  me  to  be  imprisoned, 
Kept  in  a  dark  house,  visited  by  the  priest, 
And  made  the  most  notorious  geek,2  and  gull, 
That  e'er  invention  played  on  ?     Tell  me  why. 

OIL    Alas,  Malvolio,  this  is  not  my  writing, 
Though,  I  confess,  much  like  the  character: 
But,  out  of  question,  'tis  Maria's  hand. 
And  now  I  do  bethink  me,  it  was  she 
First  told  me  thou  wast  mad :  then  cam'st  in  smiling, 
And  in  such  forms  which  here  were  presupposed 
Upon  thee  in  the  letter.     Pr'ythee,  be  content : 
This  practice 3  hath  most  shrewdly  passed  upon  thee ; 
But,  when  we  know  the  grounds  and  authors  of  it, 
Thou  shalt  be  both  the  plaintiff  and  the  judge 
Of  thine  own  cause. 

Fab.  Good  madam,  hear  me  speak ; 

And  let  no  quarrel,  nor  no  brawl  to  come, 
Taint  the  condition  of  this  present  hour, 
Which  I  have  wondered  at.      In  hope  it  shall  not, 
Most  freely  I  confess,  myself  and  Toby 
Set  this  device  against  Malvolio  here, 
Upon  some  stubborn  and  uncourteous  parts 
We  had  conceived  against  him :  Maria  writ 
The  letter,  at  Sir  Toby's  great  importance  ; 4 
In  recompense  whereof,  he  hath  married  her. 
How  with  a  sportful  malice  it  was  followed, 
May  rather  pluck  on  laughter  than  revenge  ; 
If  that  the  injuries  be  justly  weighed, 
That  have  on  both  sides  passed. 

1  Inferior.  2  Fool. 

3  Practice  is  a  deceit,  an  insidious  stratagem.        4  Importunacy. 


SC.  I.]  WHAT  YOU   WILL.  327 

OH.    Alas,  poor  fool !    how  have  they  baffled l  thee  ! 

CIo.  Why,  some  are  born  great,  some  achieve  great 
ness,  and  some  have  greatness  thrown  upon  them.  1 
wras  one,  sir,  in  this  interlude  ;  one  Sir  Topas,  sir ;  but 
that's  all  one  : — By  the  Lord,  fool,  I  am  not  mad. — 
But  do  you  remember?  Madam,  why  laugh  yon  at 
suck  a  barren  rascal  ?  An  you  smile  not,  he's  gagged : 
And  thus  the  whirligig  of  Time  brings  in  his  revenges. 

Mai.    I'll  be  revenged  on  the  whole  pack  of  you. 

[Exit. 

Oil.    He  hath  been  most  notoriously  abused. 

Duke.    Pursue  him,  and  entreat  him  to  a  peace : — 
He  hath  not  told  us  of  the  captain  yet ; 
When  that  is  known,  and  golden  time  convents,2 
A  solemn  combination  shall  be  made 
Of  our  dear  souls. — Mean  time,  sweet  sister, 
We  will  not  part  from  hence. — Cesario,  come, 
For  so  you  shall  be,  while  you  are  a  man ; 
But,  when  in  other  habits  you  are  seen, 
Orsino's  mistress,  and  his  fancy's  queen.  [Exeunt. 


SONG. 

Clo.    When  that  I  was  and  a  little  tiny  boy, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 
A  foolish  thing  was  but  a  toy, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day 

But  when  I  came  to  man's  estate, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

'Gainst  knaves  and  thieves  men  shut  their  gate, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

But  when  I  came,  alas  !  to  wive, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

By  swaggering  could  I  never  thrive, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

1  Cheated. 

2  i.  e.  Shall  serve,  agree,  be  convenient. 


328  TWELFTH  NIGHT;  OR,  WHAT  YOU  WILL.     [ACT  V. 

But  when  I  came  unto  my  bed, 

With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

With  toss-pots  still  had  drunken  head, 
For  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day. 

A  great  while  ago  the  world  begun, 
With  hey,  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain ; 

But  that's  all  one,  our  play  is  done, 

And  we'll  strive  to  please  you  every  day. 

[Exit. 


THIS  play  is  in  the  graver  part  elegant  and  easy,  and  in  some  of  the 
lighter  scenes  exquisitely  humorous.  Ague-cheek  is  drawn  with  great 
propriety,  but  his  character  is,  in  a  great  measure,  that  of  natural  fatuity, 
and  is  therefore  not  the  proper  prey  of  a  satirist.  The  soliloquy  of  Mal- 
volio  is  truly  comic ;  he  is  betrayed  to  ridicule  merely  by  his  pride.  The 
marriage  of  Olivia,  and  the  succeeding  perplexity,  though  well  enough 
contrived  to  divert  on  the  stage,  wants  credibility,  and  fails  to  produce  the 
proper  instruction  required  in  the  drama,  as  it  exhibits  no  just  picture 
of  life.  JOHNSON. 


329 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

SIIAKSPEARE  took  the  fable  of  this  play  from  the  Promos  and  Cas 
sandra  of  George  Whetstone,  published  in  ]578,  of  which  this  is  "The 
Argument" 

"In  the  city  of  Julio  (sometimes  under  the  dominion  of  Corvinus,  king 
of  Hungary  and  Bohemia),  there  was  a  law,  that  what  man  soever  com 
mitted  adultery  should  lose  his  head,  and  the  woman  offender  should  wear 
some  disguised  apparel,  during  her  life,  to  make  her  infamously  noted. 
This  severe  laAv,  by  the  favor  of  some  merciful  magistrate,  became  little 
regarded,  until  the  time  of  Lord  Promos's  authority ;  who,  convicting  a 
young  gentleman  named  Andrugio  of  incontinency,  condemned  both  him 
and  his  minion  to  the  execution  of  this  statute.  Andrugio  had  a  very 
virtuous  and  beautiful  gentlewoman  to  his  sister,  named  Cassandra.  Cas 
sandra,  to  enlarge  her  brother's  life,  submitted  a  humble  petition  to  the 
Lord  Promos.  Promos,  regarding  her  good  behavior,  and  fantasying  her 
great  beauty,  was  much  delighted  with  the  sweet  order  of  her  talk ;  and 
doing  good,  that  evil  might  come  thereof,  for  a  time  he  reprieved  her 
brother ;  but,  wicked  man,  turning  his  liking  into  unlawful  lust,  he  set 
down  the  spoil  of  her  honor,  ransom  for  her  brother's  life:  chaste  Cassan 
dra,  abhorring  both  him  and  his  suit,  by  no  persuasion  would  yield  to  this 
ransom.  But  in  fine,  won  by  the  importunity  of  her  brother  (pleading  for 
life),  upon  these  conditions  she  agreed  to  Promos :  First,  that  he  should 
pardon  her  brother,  and  after  marry  her.  Promos,  as  fearless  in  promise 
as  careless  in  performance,  with  solemn  vow,  signed  her  conditions ;  but, 
worse  than  any  infidel,  his  will  satisfied,  he  performed  neither  the  one  nor 
VOL.  i.  42 


330  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 

the  other :  for  to  keep  his  authority  unspotted  with  favor,  and  to  prevent 
Cassandra's  clamors,  he  commanded  the  jailer  secretly  to  present  Cassan 
dra  with  her  brother's  head.  The  jailer  [touched]  with  the  outcries  of 
Andrugio  (abhorring  Promos's  lewdness),  by  the  providence  of  God.  pro 
vided  thus  for  his  safety.  He  presented  Cassandra  with  a  felon's  head 
newly  executed ;  who  knew  it  not,  being  mangled,  from  her  brother's  (who 
was  set  at  liberty  by  the  jailer).  [She]  was  so  aggrieved  at  this  treachery, 
that,  at  the  point  to  kill  herself,  she  spared  that  stroke  to  be  avenged  of 
Promos ;  and  devising  a  way,  she  concluded  to  make  her  fortunes  known 
to  the  king.  She,  executing  this  resolution,  was  so  highly  favored  of  the 
king,  that  forthwith  he  hasted  to  do  justice  on  Promos ;  whose  judgment 
was  to  marry  Cassandra,  to  repair  her  crazed  honor ;  which  done,  for  his 
heinous  offence,  he  should  lose  his  head.  This  marriage  solemnized, 
Cassandra,  tied  in  the  greatest  bonds  of  affection  to  her  husband,  became 
an  earnest  suitor  for  his  life :  the  king  tendering  the  general  benefit  of 
the  commonweal  before  her  special  case,  although  he  favored  her  much, 
would  not  grant  her  suit.  Andrugio  (disguised  among  the  company),  sor 
rowing  the  grief  of  his  sister,  bewrayed  his  safety,  and  craved  pardon. 
The  king,  to  renown  the  virtues  of  Cassandra,  pardoned  both  him  and  Pro 
mos.  The  circumstances  of  this  rare  history,  in  action  lively  followeth." 
Whetstone,  however,  has  not  afforded  a  very  correct  analysis  of  his 
play,  which  contains  a  mixture  of  comic  scenes,  between  a  bawd,  a  pimp, 
felons,  &c.,  together  with  some  serious  situations  which  are  not  described. 
A  hint,  like  a  seed,  is  more  or  less  prolific,  according  to  the  qualities  of 
the  soil  on  which  it  is  throAvn.  This  story,  which  in  the  hands  of  Whet 
stone  produced  little  more  than  barren  insipidity,  under  the  culture  of 
Shakspeare  became  fertile  of  entertainment.  The  curious  reader  may 
see  the  old  play  of  Promos  and  Cassandra  among  "  Six  Old  Plays  on 
which  Shakspeare  founded,  &c."  published  by  Mr.  Steevens,  printed  for 
S.  Leacroft,  Charing  Cross.  The  piece  exhibits  an  almost  complete  em 
bryo  of  Measure  for  Measure ;  yet  the  hints  on  which  it  is  formed  are  so 
slight,  that  it  is  nearly  as  impossible  to  detect  them,  as  it  is  to  point  out  in 
the  acorn  the  future  ramifications  of  the  oak.  The  story  originally  came 


PRELIMINARY   REMARKS.  331 

from  the  " Hecatommithi "  of  Cinthio,  Decade  8,  Novels,  and  is  repeated 
in  the  Tragic  Histories  of  Belleforest. 

"  This  play,"  says  Mr.  Hazlitt, "  is  as  full  of  genius  as  it  is  of  wisdom. 
Yet  there  is  an  original  sin  in  the  nature  of  the  subject,  which  prevents  us 
from  taking  a  cordial  interest  in  it  '  The  height  of  moral  argument,' 
which  the  author  has  maintained  in  the  intervals  of  passion,  or  blended 
with  the  more  powerful  impulses  of  nature,  is  hardly  surpassed  in  any  of 
his  plays.  But  there  is  a  general  want  of  passion ;  the  affections  are  at  i 
stand ;  our  sympathies  are  repulsed  and  defeated  in  all  directions." 

Isabella  is  a  lovely  example  of  female  purity  and  virtue :  with  mental 
energies  of  a  very  superior  kind,  she  is  placed  in  a  situation  to  make  trial 
of  them  all,  and  the  firmness  with  which  her  virtue  resists  the  appeal  of 
natural  affection  has  something  in  it  heroically  sublime.  The  passages 
in  which  she  encourages  her  brother  to  meet  death  with  firmness  rather 
than  dishonor;  his  burst  of  indignant  passion  on  learning  the  price  at 
which  his  life  might  be  redeemed ;  and  his  subsequent  clinging  to  life, 
and  desire  that  she  would  make  the  sacrifice  required, — are  among  the 
finest  dramatic  passages  of  Shakspeare.  What  heightens  the  effect  is, 
that  this  scene  follows  the  fine  exhortation  of  the  duke  in  the  character 
of  the  friar,  about  the  little  value  of  life,  which  had  almost  made  Claudio 
"  resolved  to  die."  The  comic  parts  of  the  play  are  lively  and  amusing ; 
and  the  reckless  Barnardine,  "  fearless  of  what's  past,  present,  and  to 
come,"  is  in  fine  contrast  to  the  sentimentality  of  the  other  characters. 
Shakspeare  "  was  a  moralist  in  the  same  sense  in  which  Nature  is  one. 
He  taught  what  he  had  learnt  from  her.  He  showed  the  greatest  knowl 
edge  of  humanity,  with  the  greatest  fellow  feeling  for  it." 

Malone  supposes  this  play  to  have  been  written  about  the  close  of  the 
year  1603 


332 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

VINCENTIO,  Duke  of  Vienna. 

ANGELO,  Lord  Deputy  in  the  Duke's  absence. 

ESCALUS,  an   ancient  Lord,  joined  with  Angelo  in   the 

Deputation. 

CLAUD  10,  a  young  Gentleman. 
Lucio,  a  Fantastic. 
Two  other  like  Gentlemen. 
VARRIUS,  a  Gentleman,  Servant  to  the  Duke. 
Provost. 

PETER"'  }  tw°  FrlarS' 

A  Justice. 

ELBOW,  a  simple  Constable. 

FROTH,  a  foolish  Gentleman. 

Clown,  Servant  to  Mrs.  Over-done. 

ABHORSON,  an  Executioner. 

BARNARDINE,  a  dissolute  Prisoner. 

ISABELLA,  Sister  to  Claudio. 
MARIANA,  betrothed  to  Angelo 
JULIET,  beloved  by  Claudio. 
FRANCISCA,  a  Nun. 
MISTRESS  OVER-DONE,  a  Bawd. 


Lords,  Gentlemen,  Guards,  Officers,  and  other 
Attendants. 


SCENE.  Vienna. 


333 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.     An  Apartment  in  the  Duke's  Palace. 

Enter  Duke,  ESCALUS,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Duke.   ESCALUS, — 

Escal   My  lord. 

Duke.    Of  government  the  properties  to  unfold, 
Would  seem  in  me  to  affect  speech  and  discourse  ; 
Since  I  am  put  to  know,  that  your  own  science 
Exceeds,  in  that,  the  lists *  of  all  advice 
My  strength  can  give  you :  then  no  more  remains, 
But  that  to  your  sufficiency,2  as  your  worth  is  able, 
And  let  them  work.     The  nature  of  our  people, 
Our  city's  institutions,  and  the  terms 
For  common  justice,  you  are  as  pregnant  in, 
As  art  and  practice  hath  enriched  any 
That  we  remember :  there  is  our  commission, 
From  which   we    would    not   have   you   warp. — Call 

hither, 
I  say,  bid  come  before  us,  Angelo. — 

[Exit  an  Attendant. 

What  figure  of  us  think  you  he  will  bear  ? 
For  you  must  know,  we  have  with  special  soul 

1  Lists  are  bounds. 

2  Some  words  seem  to  be  lost  here;  the  sense  of  which  may  have 
been  f 

Then  no  more  remains 

But  that  to  your  sufficiency  you  join 
Jl  zeal  as  willing,  as  your  worth  is  able, 
And  let  them  work. 


334  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  I 

Elected  him  our  absence  to  supply ; 

Lent  him  our  terror,  dressed  him  with  our  love  ; 

And  given  his  deputation  all  the  organs 

Of  our  own  power  :  what  think  you  of  it  ? 

Escal.    If  any  in  Vienna  be  of  worth 
To  undergo  such  ample  grace  and  honor, 
It  is  lord  Angelo. 

a 

Enter  ANGELO. 

Duke.  Look,  where  he  comes. 

Ang.    Always  obedient  to  your  grace's  will, 
I  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

Duke. 

There  is  a  kind  of  character  in  thy  life, 
That,  to  the  observer,  doth  thy  history 
Fully  unfold  :  thyself  and  thy  belongings 
Are  not  thine  own  so  proper,1  as  to  waste 
Thyself  upon  thy  virtues,  them  on  thee. 
Heaven  doth  with  us,  as  we  with  torches  do , 
Not  light  them  for  themselves  :  for  if  our  virtues 
Did  not  go  forth  of  us,  'twere  all  alike 
As  if  we  had  them  not.     Spirits  are  not  finely  touched, 
But  to  fine  issues  : 2  nor  nature  never  lends 
The  smallest  scruple  of  her  excellence, 
But  like  a  thrifty  goddess,  she  determines 
Herself  the  glory  of  a  creditor, 
Both  thanks  and  use.3     But  I  do  bend  my  speech 
To  one  that  can  my  part  in  him  advertise : 4 
Hold,  therefore. — Angelo, 
In  our  remove,  be  thou  at  full  ourself ; 
Mortality  and  mercy  in  Vienna 
Live  in  thy  tongue  and  heart :  old  Escalus, 
Though  first  in  question,  is  thy  secondary : 
Take  thy  commission. 

Ang.  Now,  good  my  lord. 

Let  there  be  some  more  test  made  of  my  metal, 

1  So  much  thy  own  property. 

2  i.  e.  high  purposes. 

3  i.  e.  interest. 

4  i.  e.  to  one  who  is  already  sufficiently  conversant  with  the  nature  and 
duties  of  that  office  which  I  have  now  delegated  to  him. 


SC  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  335 

Before  so  noble  and  so  great  a  figure 
Be  stamped  upon  it. 

Duke.  No  more  evasion  : 

We  have  with  a  leavened  1  and  prepared  choice 
Proceeded  to  you  ;  therefore  take  your  honors. 
Our  haste  from  hence  is  of  so  quick  condition, 
That  it  prefers  itself,  and  leaves  unquestioned 
Matters  of  needful  value.     We  shall  write  to  you, 
As  time  and  our  concernings  shall  importune, 
How  it  goes  with  us ;  and  do  look  to  know 
What  doth  befall  you  here.     So,  fare  you  well : 
To  the  hopeful  execution  do  I  leave  you 
Of  your  commissions. 

Ang.  Yet,  give  leave,  my  lord, 

That  we  may  bring  you  something  on  the  way. 

Duke.    My  haste  may  not  admit  it ; 
Nor  need  you,  on  mine  honor,  have  to  do 
With  any  scruple :  your  scope  is  as  mine  own ; 
So  to  enforce  or  qualify  the  laws, 
As  to  your  soul  seems  good.     Give  me  your  hand ; 
I'll  privily  away ;  I  love  the  people, 
But  do  not  like  to  stage  me  to  their  eyes ; 
Though  it  do  well,  I  do  not  relish  well 
Their  loud  applause,  and  aves 2  vehement ; 
Nor  do  I  think  the  man  of  safe  discretion, 
That  does  affect  it.     Once  more,  fare  you  well. 

Ang.    The  heavens  give  safety  to  your  purposes ! 

Escal.    Lead  forth,  and  bring  you  back  in  happiness. 

Duke.    I  thank  you  :  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Escal.    I  shall  desire  you,  sir,  to  give  me  leave 
To  have  free  speech  with  you ;  and  it  concerns  me 
To  look  into  the  bottom  of  my  place  : 
A  power  I  have  ;  but  of  what  strength  and  nature 
I  am  not  yet  instructed. 

Ang.    'Tis  so  with  me  : — let  us  withdraw  together, 
And  we  may  soon  our  satisfaction  have 
Touching  that  point. 

Escal.  I'll  wait  upon  your  honor. 

[Exeunt. 

1  i.  e.  concocted,  matured.  2  Aves  are  bailings. 


336  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  1. 

SCENE  II.     A  Street. 

Enter  Lucio  and  two  Gentlemen. 

Lucio.  If  the  duke,  with  the  other  dukes,  come  not 
to  composition  with  the  king  of  Hungary,  why,  then, 
all  the  dukes  fall  upon  the  king. 

1  Gent.    Heaven  grant  us  its  peace,  but  not  the  king 
of  Hungary's ! 

2  Gent.    Amen. 

Lucio.  Thou  concludest  like  the  sanctimonious  pi 
rate,  that  went  to  sea  with  the  ten  commandments, 
but  scraped  one  out  of  the  table. 

2  Gent.    Thou  shalt  not  steal  ? 

Lucio.    Ay,  that  he  razed. 

1  Gent.    Why,  'twas  a  commandment  to  command 
the  captain  and  all  the  rest  from  their  functions ;  they 
put  forth  to  steal :  there's  not  a  soldier  of  us  all,  that, 
in  the  thanksgiving  before  meat,  doth  relish  the  petition 
well  that  prays  for  peace. 

2  Gent.    I  never  heard  any  soldier  dislike  it. 
Lucio.    I  believe  thee ;  for  I  think,  thou  never  wast 

where  grace  was  said. 

2  Gent.   No  ?  a  dozen  times  at  least. 

1  Gent.    What  ?  in  metre  ? 

Lucio.    In  any  proportion,1  or  in  any  language. 

1  Gent.    I  think,  or  in  any  religion. 

Lucio.  Ay  !  why  not  ?  Grace  is  grace,  despite  of 
all  controversy :  as  for  example ;  thou  thyself  art  a 
wicked  villain,  despite  of  all  grace. 

1  Gent.  Well,  there  went  but  a  pair  of  shears  be 
tween  us.2 

Lucio.  I  grant ;  as  there  may  between  the  lists  and 
the  velvet :  thou  art  the  list. 

1  Gent.  And  thou  the  velvet :  thou  art  good  velvet ; 
thou  art  a  three-piled  piece,  I  warrant  thee  :  1  had  as 
Mef  be  a  list  of  an  English  kersey,  as  be  piled,  as  thou 

1  i.  e.  measure.  2  We  are  both  of  the  same  piece. 


SC.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  337 

art  piled,  for  a  French  velvet.1     Do  I  speak  feelingly 
now  ? 

Lucio.  I  think  thou  dost ;  and,  indeed,  with  most 
painful  feeling  of  thy  speech :  I  will,  out  of  thine  own 
confession,  learn  to  begin  thy  health ;  but,  whilst  I 
live,  forget  to  drink  after  thee. 

1  Gent.    I  think  I  have  done  myself  wrong ;  have 
I  not  ? 

2  Gent.    Yes,    that   thou   hast;    whether   thou   art 
tainted  or  free. 

Lucio.  Behold,  behold,  where  madam  Mitigation 
comes !  I  have  purchased  as  many  diseases  under  her 
roof,  as  come  to — 

2  Gent.    To  what,  I  pray  ? 

1  Gent.   Judge. 

2  Gent.    To  three  thousand  dollars  a-year. 
1  Gent.    Ay,  and  more. 

Lucio.    A  French  crown  more. 

1  Gent.  Thou  art  always  figuring  diseases  in  me : 
but  thou  art  full  of  error ;  I  am  sound. 

Lucio.  Nay,  not  as  one  would  say,  healthy ;  but  so 
sound,  as  things  that  are  hollow ;  thy  bones  are  hol 
low  :  impiety  has  made  a  feast  of  thee. 

Enter  Bawd. 

1  Gent.  How  now  ?  Which  of  your  hips  has  the 
most  profound  sciatica  ? 

Bawd.  Well,  well ;  there's  one  yonder  arrested, 
and  carried  to  prison,  was  worth  five  thousand  of 
you  all. 

1  Gent.    Who's  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Bawd.    Marry,  sir,  that's  Claudio,  seignior  Claudio. 

1  Gent.    Claudio  to  prison  !     'Tis  not  so. 

Bawd.  Nay,  but  I  know  'tis  so ;  I  saw  him  arrest 
ed  ;  saw  him  carried  away ;  and,  which  is  more,  within 
these  three  days  his  head's  to  be  chopped  off. 

Lucio.  But,  after  all  this  fooling,  I  would  not  have 
it  so  :  art  thou  sure  of  this  ? 

1  Velvet  was  esteemed  according  to  the  richness  of  the  pile ;  three- 
piled  was  the  richest     But  piled  also  means  laid. 
VOL.  i.  43 


333  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  I. 

Bawd.  I  am  too  sure  of  it ;  and  it  is  for  getting 
madam  Julietta  with  child. 

Lucio.  Believe  me,  this  may  be :  he  promised  to 
meet  me  two  hours  since ;  and  he  was  ever  precise  in 
promise-keeping. 

2  Gent.  Besides,  you  know,  it  draws  something 
near  to  the  speech  we  had  to  such  a  purpose. 

1  Gent.  But  most  of  all,  agreeing  with  the  procla 
mation. 

Lucio.    Away  ;  let's  go  learn  the  truth  of  it. 

[Exeunt  Lucio  and  Gentlemen. 

Bawd.  Thus,  what  with  the  war,  what  with  the 
sweat,1  what  with  the  gallows,  and  what  with  poverty, 
1  am  custom-shrunk.  How  now  ?  What's  the  news 
with  you  ? 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.    Yonder  man  is  carried  to  prison. 

Bawd.    Well ;  what  has  he  done  ? 

Clo.    A  woman. 

Bawd.    But  what's  his  offence  ? 

Clo.    Groping  for  trouts  in  a  peculiar  river. 

Bawd.    What,  is  there  a  maid  with  child  by  him  ? 

Clo.  No  ;  but  there's  a  woman  with  maid  by  him : 
you  have  not  heard  of  the  proclamation,  have  you  ? 

Baivd.    What  proclamation,  man  ? 

Clo.  All  houses  in  the  suburbs  of  Vienna  must  be 
plucked  down. 

Bawd.    And  what  shall  become  of  those  in  the  city? 

Clo.  They  shall  stand  for  seed :  they  had  gone 
down  too,  but  that  a  wise  burgher  put  in  for  them. 

Bawd.  But  shall  all  our  houses  of  resort  in  the  sub 
urbs  be  pulled  down  ? 

Clo.    To  the  ground,  mistress. 

Bawd.  Why,  here's  a  change,  indeed,  in  the  com 
monwealth  !  What  shall  become  of  me  ? 

Clo.  Come,  fear  not  you  ;  good  counsellors  lack  no 
clients ;  though  you  change  your  place,  you  need  not 

1  The  sweat ;  the  consequences  of  the  curative  process  then  used  for  a 
certain  disease. 


SC.  III.]  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  339 

change  your  trade ;  I'll  be  your  tapster  still.  Cour 
age  ;  there  will  be  pity  taken  on  you :  you  that  have 
worn  your  eyes  almost  out  in  the  service,  you  will  be 
considered. 

Bawd.  What's  to  do  here,  Thomas  Tapster  ?  Let's 
withdraw. 

Clo.  Here  comes  seignior  Claudio,  led  by  the  provost 
to  prison  ;  and  there's  madam  Juliet.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  Same. 

Enter  Provost,1  CLAUDIO,  JULIET,  and  Officers  :  Lucio 
and  two  Gentlemen. 

Claud.    Fellow,  why  dost  thou  show  me  thus  to  the 

world  ? 
Bear  me  to  prison,  where  I  am  committed. 

Prov.    I  do  it  not  in  evil  disposition, 
But  from  lord  Angelo  by  special  charge. 

Claud.    Thus  can  the  demi-god,  Authority, 
Make  us  pay  down  for  our  offence  by  weight. — 
The  words  of  Heaven  ; — on  whom  it  will,  it  will ; 
On  whom  it  will  not,  so ;  yet  still  'tis  just.2 

Lucio.  Why,  how  now,  Claudio?  Whence  comes 
this  restraint  ? 

Claud.    From  too  much  liberty,  my  Lucio,  liberty  ; 
As  surfeit  is  the  father  of  much  fast, 
So  every  scope  by  the  immoderate  use 
Turns  to  restraint :  our  natures  do  pursue 
(Like  rats  that  ravin 3  down  their  proper  bane) 
A  thirsty  evil ;  and  when  we  drink,  we  die. 

Lucio.  If  I  could  speak  so  wisely  under  an  arrest, 
I  would  send  for  certain  of  my  creditors :  and  yet,  to 
say  the  truth,  I  had  as  lief  have  the  foppery  of  freedom, 
as  the  morality  of  imprisonment.  What's  thy  offence, 
Claudio  ? 


1  i.  e.  gaoler. 

2  The  Poet  alludes  to  a  passage  in  St.  Paul's  Epist.  to  the  Romans,  ch. 
ix.  v.  15 — 18 :  "  I  will  have  mercy  on  whom  I  will  have  mercy." 

3  To  ravin  is  to  devour  voraciously. 


340  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  I 

Claud.    What,  but  to  speak  of,  would  offend  again. 

Lucio.    What  is  it  ?     Murder  ? 

Claud.   No. 

Lucio.    Lechery  ? 

Claud.    Call  it  so. 

Prov.    Away,  sir ;  you  must  go. 

Claud.    One    word,   good   friend : — Lucio,   a  word 
with  you.  [Takes  him  aside. 

Lucio.    A  hundred,  if  they'll  do  you  any  good. — 
Is  lechery  so  looked  after  ? 

Claud.    Thus    stands    it   with    me : — upon    a    true 

contract, 

I  got  possession  of  Julietta's  bed  ; 
You  know  the  lady ;  she  is  fast  my  wife, 
Save  that  we  do  the  denunciation  lack 
Of  outward  order  :  this  we  came  not  to, 
Only  for  propagation  l  of  a  dower 
Remaining  in  the  coffer  of  her  friends ; 
From  whom  we  thought  it  meet  to  hide  our  love, 
Till  time  had  made  them  for  us.     But  it  chances, 
The  stealth  of  our  most  mutual  entertainment, 
With  character  too  gross,  is  writ  on  Juliet. 

Lucio.    With  child,  perhaps  ? 

Claud.    Unhappily,  even  so. 
And  the  new  deputy  now  for  the  duke, — 
Whether  it  be  the  fault  and  glimpse  of  newness ; 
Or  whether  that  the  body  public  be 
A  horse  whereon  the  governor  doth  ride, 
Who,  newly  in  the  seat,  that  it  may  know 
He  can  command,  lets  it  straight  feel  the  spur : 
Whether  the  tyranny  be  in  his  place, 
Or  in  his  eminence  that  fills  it  up. 
I  stagger  in : — but  this  new  governor 
Awakes  me  all  the  enrolled  penalties, 
Which  have,  like  unsecured  armor,  hung  by  the  wall 
So  long,  that  nineteen  zodiacs  have  gone  round, 
And  none  of  them  been  worn ;  and,  for  a  name, 

1  It  appears  that  Claudio  would  say — "  for  the  sake  of  promoting  such 
a  dower  as  her  friends  mi^ht  hereafter  bestow  on  her,  Avhen  time  had 
reconciled  them  to  her  clandestine  marriage." 


SC.  IV.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  341 

Now  puts  the  drowsy  and  neglected  act 
Freshly  on  me  : — 'tis  surely  for  a  name. 

Lucio.  I  warrant,  it  is :  and  thy  head  stands  so 
tickle  J  on  thy  shoulders,  that  a  milk-maid,  if  she  be  in 
love,  may  sigh  it  off.  Send  after  the  duke,  and  appeal 
to  him. 

Claud.    I  have  done  so,  but  he's  not  to  be  found. 
I  pr'ythee,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  service : 
This  day  my  sister  should  the  cloister  enter, 
And  there  receive  her  approbation  : 2 
Acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state  ; 
Implore  her,  in  my  voice,  that  she  make  friends 
To  the  strict  deputy ;  bid  herself  assay  him  ; 
I  have  great  hope  in  that ;  for  in  her  youth 
There  is  a  prone 3  and  speechless  dialect, 
Such  as  moves  men ;  besides,  she  hath  prosperous  art 
When  she  will  play  with  reason  and  discourse, 
And  well  she  can  persuade. 

Lucio.  I  pray,  she  may ;  as  well  for  the  encourage 
ment  of  the  like,  which  else  would  stand  under  griev 
ous  imposition,  as  for  the  enjoying  of  thy  life,  who  I 
would  be  sorry  should  be  thus  foolishly  lost  at  a  game 
of  tick-tack.  I'll  to  her. 

Claud.    I  thank  you,  good  friend  Lucio. 

Lucio.    Within  two  hours, 

Claud.    Come,  officer,  away.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.     A  Monastery. 


Enter  DUKE  and  Friar  Thomas. 

Duke.    No ;  holy  father ;  throw  away  that  thought ; 
Believe  not  that  the  dribbling  dart  of  love 
Can  pierce  a  complete  bosom:4  why  I  desire  thee 
To  give  me  secret  harbor,  hath  a  purpose 

1  Tickle,  for  ticklish. 

2  i.  e.  enter  on  her  novitiate  or  probation. 

3  Prone  is  prompt  or  ready. 

4  "  A  complete  bosom  "  is  a  bosom  completely  armed. 


342  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  I. 

More  grave  and  wrinkled  than  the  aims  and  ends 
Of  burning  youth. 

Fri.  May  your  grace  speak  of  it  ? 

Duke.   My  holy  sir,  none  better  knows  than  you 
How  I  have  ever  loved  the  life  removed ; 
And  held  in  idle  price  to  haunt  assemblies, 
Where  youth,  and  cost,  and  witless  bravery  keeps. 
I  have  delivered  to  lord  Angelo 
A  man  of  stricture  1  and  firm  abstinence) 
ly  absolute  power  and  place  here  in  Vienna, 
And  he  supposes  me  travelled  to  Poland ; 
For  so  I  have  strewed  it  in  the  common  ear, 
And  so  it  is  received :  now,  pious  sir, 
You  will  demand  of  me,  why  I  do  this  ? 

Fri.    Gladly,  my  lord. 

Duke.    We  have  strict  statutes  and  most  biting  laws, 
(The  needful  bits  and  curbs  for  headstrong  steeds,) 
Which  for  these  fourteen  years  we  have  let  sleep ; 
Even  like  an  o'ergrown  lion  in  a  cave, 
That  goes  not  out  to  prey :  now,  as  fond  fathers, 
Having  bound  up  the  threatening  twigs  of  birch, 
Only  to  stick  it  in  their  children's  sight, 
For  terror,  not  to  use  ;  in  time  the  rod 
Becomes  more  mocked  than  feared  :  so  our  decrees, 
Dead  to  infliction,  to  themselves  are  dead  ; 
And  liberty  plucks  justice  by  the  nose  ; 
The  baby  beats  the  nurse,  and  quite  athwart 
Goes  all  decorum. 

Fri.  It  rested  in  your  grace 

To  unloose  this  tied-up  justice  when  you  pleased ; 
And  it  in  you  more  dreadful  would  have  seemed, 
Than  in  lord  Angelo. 

Duke.  I  do  fear,  too  dreadful : 

Sith  'twas  my  fault  to  give  the  people  scope, 
'Twould  be  my  tyranny  to  strike,  and  gall  them 
For  what  I  bid  them  do ;  for  we  bid  this  be  done, 
When  evil  deeds  have  their  permissive  pass, 
And   not   the    punishment.     Therefore,    indeed,    my 
father, 

1  Strictness. 


SC.  V.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  343 

I  have  on  Angelo  imposed  the  office  ; 

Who  may,  in  the  ambush  of  my  name,  strike  home, 

And  yet  my  nature  never  in  the  sight, 

To  do  it  slander :  and  to  behold  his  sway, 

I  will,  as  'twere  a  brother  of  your  order, 

Visit  both  prince  and  people :  therefore,  I  pr'ythee, 

Supply  me  with  the  habit,  and  instruct  me 

How  I  may  formally  in  person  bear  me 

Like  a  true  friar.     More  reasons  for  this  action, 

At  our  more  leisure,  shall  I  render  you ; 

Only,  this  one  : — lord  Angelo  is  precise  ; 

Stands  at  a  guard 1  with  envy ;  scarce  confesses 

That  his  blood  flows,  or  that  his  appetite 

Is  more  to  bread  than  stone :  hence  shall  we  see, 

If  power  change  purpose,  what  our  seemers  be. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.     A  Nunnery. 

Enter  ISABELLA  and  FRANCIS CA. 

Isab.    And  have  you  nuns  no  further  privileges  ? 

Fran.    Are  not  these  large  enough  ? 

Isab.    Yes,  truly ;  I  speak  not  as  desiring  more  ; 
But  rather  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint 
Upon  the  sisterhood,  the  votarists  of  Saint  Clare. 

Lucio.    Ho  !     Peace  be  in  this  place  !  [  Within. 

Isab.  Who's  that  which  calls  ? 

Fran.    It  is  a  man's  voice  :  gentle  Isabella, 
Turn  you  the  key,  and  know  his  business  of  him ; 
You  may,  I  may  not ;  you  are  yet  unsworn : 
When  you  have  vowed,  you  must  not  speak  with  men, 
But  in  the  presence  of  the  prioress : 
Then,  if  you  speak,  you  must  not  show  your  face ; 
Or,  if  you  show  your  face,  you  must  not  speak. 
He  calls  again ;  I  pray  you,  answer  him. 

[Exit  FRANCISCA. 

Isab.   Peace  and  prosperity !     Who  is't  that  calls  ? 

1  i.  e.  on  his  defence. 


344  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  1 

Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.    Hail,  virgin,  if  you  be  ;  as  those  check-roses 
Proclaim  you  are  no  less !     Can  you  so  stead  me, 
As  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabella, 
A  novice  of  this  place,  and  the  fair  sister 
To  her  unhappy  brother  Claudio  ? 

Isab.    Why  her  unhappy  brother  ?  let  me  ask ; 
The  rather,  for  I  now  must  make  you  know 
I  am  that  Isabella,  and  his  sister. 

Lucio.    Gentle  and  fair,  your  brother  kindly  greets 

you : 
Not  to  be  weary  with  you,  he's  in  prison. 

Isab.    Woe  me  !     For  what  ? 

Lucio.    For  that,  which,   if    myself  might  be  his 

judge, 

He  should  receive  his  punishment  in  thanks : 
He  hath  got  his  friend  with  child. 

Isab.    Sir,  make  me  not  your  story.1 

Lucio.  It  is  true 

I  would  not, — though  'tis  my  familiar  sin 
With  maids  to  seem  the  lapwing,2  and  to  jest, 
Tongue  far  from  heart, — play  with  all  virgins  so : 
I  hold  you  as  a  thing  enskied,  and  sainted  ; 
By  your  renouncement,  an  immortal  spirit ; 
And  to  be  talked  with  in  sincerity, 
As  with  a  saint. 

Isab.    You  do  blaspheme  the  good,  in  mocking  me. 

Lucio.    Do  not  believe  it.     Fewness  and  truth,3  'tis 

thus : 

Your  brother  and  his  lover  have  embraced : 
As  those  that  feed  grow  full ;  as  blossoming  time, 
That  from  the  seedness  the  bare  fallow  brings 
To  teeming  foison ; 4  even  so  her  plenteous  womb 
Expresseth  his  full  tilth  and  husbandry. 

1  Mr.  Malone  reads,  «  Sir,  mock  me  not ; — your  story." 

2  This  bird  is  said  to  draw  pursuers  from  her  nest  by  crying  in  other 
places.     This  was  formerly  the  subject  of  a  proverb — "  The  lapwing  cries 
most,  farthest  from  her  nest,"  i.  e.  tongue  far  from  heart. 

3  In  few  and  true  words. 
1  Abundant  produce. 


SO.  V.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  345 

Isab.    Some  one  with  child   by  him  ? — My  cousin 
Juliet  ? 

Lucio.    Is  she  your  cousin  ? 

Isab.    Adoptedly ;     as    school-maids    change    their 

names, 
By  vain  though  apt  affection. 

Lucio.  She  it  is. 

Isab.    O  let  him  marry  her  ! 

Lucio.  This  is  the  point. 

The  duke  is  very  strangely  gone  from  hence ; 
Bore  many  gentlemen,  myself  being  one, 
In  hand,  and  hope  of  action  :  but  we  do  learn 
By  those  that  know  the  very  nerves  of  state, 
His  givings  out  were  of  an  infinite  distance 
From  his  true-meant  design.     Upon  his  place, 
And  with  full  line  l  of  his  authority, 
Governs  lord  Angelo ;  a  man  whose  blood 
Is  very  snow-broth ;  one  who  never  feels 
The  wanton  stings  and  motions  of  the  sense ; 
But  doth  rebate  and  blunt  his  natural  edge 
With  profits  of  the  mind,  study  and  fast. 
He  (to  give  fear  to  use  and  liberty, 
Which  have,  for  long,  run  by  the  hideous  law, 
As  mice  by  lions)  hath  picked  out  an  act, 
Under  whose  heavy  sense  your  brother's  life 
Falls  into  forfeit :  he  arrests  him  on  it ; 
And  follows  close  the  rigor  of  the  statute, 
To  make  him  an  example :  all  hope  is  gone, 
Unless  you  have  the  grace  by  your  fair  prayer 
To  soften  Angelo :  and  that's  my  pith 
Of  business  'twixt  you  and  your  poor  brother. 

Isab.    Doth  he  so  seek  his  life  ? 

Lucio.  Has  censured 2  him 

Already ;  and,  as  I  hear,  the  provost  hath 
A  warrant  for  his  execution. 

Isab.    Alas  !     What  poor  ability's  in  me 
To  do  him  good  ? 

Lucio.  Assay  the  power  you  have. 

1  Full  line,  extent  2  To  censure  is  to  judge. 

VOL.  i.  44 


346  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  11. 

Isab.    My  power !     Alas  !  I  doubt, — 

Lucio.  Our  doubts  are  traitors, 

And  make  us  lose  the  good  we  oft  might  win, 
By  fearing  to  attempt :  go  to  lord  Angelo, 
And  let  him  learn  to  know,  when  maidens  sue, 
Men  give  like  gods ;  but  when  they  weep  and  kneel, 
All  their  petitions  are  as  freely  theirs 
As  they  themselves  would  owe  l  them. 

Isab.    I'll  see  wrhat  I  can  do. 

Lucio.  But  speedily. 

Isab.    I  will  about  it  straight ; 
No  longer  staying  but  to  give  the  mother 
Notice  of  my  affair.     I  humbly  thank  you  : 
Commend  me  to  my  brother :  soon  at  night 
I'll  send  him  certain  word  of  my  success. 

Lucio.    I  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Isab.  Good  sir,  adieu. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.     A  Hall  in  Angelo's  House. 

Enter  ANGELO,  ESCALUS,  a  Justice,  Provost,  Officers, 
and   other   Attendants. 

Ang.   We  must  not  make  a  scarecrow  of  the  law, 
Setting  it  up  to  fear  the  birds  of  prey, 
And  let  it  keep  one  shape,  till  custom  make  it 
Their  perch,  and  not  their  terror. 

Escal.  Ay,  but  yet 

Let  us  be  keen,  and  rather  cut  a  little, 
Than  fall,  and  bruise  to  death :  alas !  this  gentleman, 
Whom  I  would  save,  had  a  most  noble  father. 
Let  but  your  honor  know,2 

1  To  owe  is  to  have,  to  possess.  2  i.  e.  to  examine. 


SC.  1.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  347 

(Whom  I  believe  to  be  most  strait  in  virtue,) 
That,  in  the  working  of  your  own  affections, 
Had  time  cohered  with  place,  or  place  with  wishing, 
Or  that  the  resolute  acting  of  your  blood 
Could  have  attained  the  effect  of  your  owrn  purpose, 
Whether  you  had  not  some  time  in  your  life 
Erred  in  this  point  which  now  you  censure  him, 
And  pulled  the  law  upon  you. 

Aug.    'Tis  one  thing  to  be  tempted,  Escalus, 
Another  thing  to  fall.     I  not  deny, 
The  jury,  passing  on  the  prisoner's  life, 
May,  in  the  sworn  twelve,  have  a  thief  or  two 
Guiltier    than    him    they   try ;    what's    open  made    to 

justice, 

That  justice  seizes.     What  know  the  laws, 
That  thieves  do  pass  on  thieves  ?     'Tis  very  pregnant, 
The  jewel  that  we  find,  we  stoop  and  take  it, 
Because  we  see  it;  but  what  we  do  not  see, 
We  tread  upon,  and  never  think  of  it. 
You  may  not  so  extenuate  his  offence, 
For  I  have  had  such  faults  ;   but  rather  tell  me, 
When  I,  that  censure  him,  do  so  offend, 
Let  mine  own  judgment  pattern  out  my  death, 
And  nothing  come  in  partial.     Sir,  he  must  die. 

EscaL    Be  it  as  your  wisdom  will. 

Aug.  Where  is  the  provost ! 

Prov.    Here,  if  it  like  your  honor. 

Ang.  See  that  Claudio 

Be  executed  by  nine  to-morrow  morning : 
Bring  him  his  confessor,  let  him  be  prepared; 
For  that's  the  utmost  of  his  pilgrimage. 

[Exit  Provost. 

EscaL    Well,  Heaven  forgive  him ;    and  forgive  us 

all! 

Some  rise  by  sin,  and  some  by  virtue  fall : 1 
Some  run  from  brakes 2  of  vice,  and  answer  none ; 
And  some  condemned  for  a  fault  alone. 


1  This  line  is  printed  in  Italics  as  a  quotation  in  the  first  folio. 

2  The  first  folio  here  reads — "  Some  run  from  brakes  of  ice"     The  cor 
rection  was  made  by  Rowe.     A  brake  was  used  to  signify  a  trap  or  snare. 


348  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.          [ACT  II. 


Enter  ELBOW,  FROTH,  Clown,  Officers,  &,c. 

Elb.  Come,  bring  them  away ;  if  these  be  good 
people  in  a  commonweal,  that  do  nothing  but  use 
their  abuse  in  common  houses,  I  know  no  law;  bring 
them  away. 

Ang.  How  now,  sir!  What's  your  name?  And 
what's  the  matter  ? 

Elb.  If  it  please  your  honor,  I  am  the  poor  duke's 
constable,  and  my  name  is  Elbow ;  I  do  lean  upon 
justice,  sir,  and  do  bring  in  here  before  your  good 
honor  two  notorious  benefactors. 

Ang.  Benefactors !  Well ;  what  benefactors  are 
they  ?  are  they  not  malefactors  ? 

Elb.  If  it  please  your  honor,  I  know  not  well  what 
they  are  :  but  precise  villains  they  are,  that  I  am  sure 
of;  and  void  of  all  profanation  in  the  world,  that  good 
Christians  ought  to  have. 

Escal.    This  comes  off  well ;  here's  a  wise  officer. 

Ang.  Go  to  :  what  quality  are  they  of  ?  Elbow  is 
your  name  ?  Why  dost  thou  not  speak,  Elbow? 

do.    He  cannot,  sir  ;  he's  out  at  elbow. 

Ang.    What  are  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  He,  sir  ?  A  tapster,  sir ;  parcel-bawd ;  one 
that  serves  a  bad  woman ;  whose  house,  sir,  was,  as 
they  say,  plucked  down  in  the  suburbs;  and  now  she 
professes1  a  hot-house,  which,  I  think,  is  a  very  ill 
house  too. 

Escal.    How  know  you  that  ? 

Elb.  My  wife,  sir,  whom  I  detest  before  Heaven 
and  your  honor, — 

Escal.    How  !  thy  wife  ? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir ;  whom,  I  thank  Heaven,  is  an  honest 
woman, — 

Escal.    Dost  thou  detest  her  therefore  ? 

Elb.  I  say,  sir,  I  will  detest  myself  also,  as  well  as 
she,  that  this  house,  if  it  be  not  a  bawd's  house,  it  is 
pity  of  her  life,  for  it  is  a  naughty  house. 

1  i.  e.  keeps  a  bagnio. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  349 

EscaL    How  dost  thoii  know  that,  constable  ? 

Elb.  Many,  sir,  by  my  wife  ;  who,  if  she  had  been 
a  woman  cardinally  given,  might  have  been  accused  in 
fornication,  adultery,  and  all  uncleanliness  there. 

EscaL    By  the  woman's  means  ? 

Elb.  Ay,  sir,  by  mistress  Over-done's  means :  but 
as  she  spit  in  his  face,  so  she  defied  him. 

Clo.    Sir,  if  it  please  your  honor,  this  is  not  so. 

Elb.  Prove  it  before  these  varlets  here,  thou  honor 
able  man  ;  prove  it. 

EscaL    Do  you  hear  how  he  misplaces  ? 

[To  ANGELO. 

Clo.  Sir,  she  came  in  great  with  child  ;  and  longing 
(saving  your  honor's  reverence)  for  stewed  prunes  : 
sir,  we  had  but  two  in  the  house,  which  at  that  very 
distant  time  stood,  as  it  were,  in  a  fruit-dish,  a  dish  of 
some  three  pence  ;  your  honors  have  seen  such  dishes  ; 
they  are  not  China  dishes,  but  very  good  dishes. 

EscaL    Go  to,  go  to :  no  matter  for  the  dish,  sir. 

Clo.  No  indeed,  sir,  not  of  a  pin ;  you.  are  therein 
in  the  right:  but  to  the  point.  As  I  say,  this  mistress 
Elbow,  being,  as  I  say,  with  child,  and  being  great 
bellied,  and  longing,  as  I  said,  for  prunes ;  and  having 
but  twro  in  a  dish,  as  I  said,  master  Froth  here,  this 
very  man,  having  eaten  the  rest,  as  I  said,  and,  as  I 
say,  paying  for  them  very  honestly ; — for,  as  you 
know,  master  Froth,  I  could  not  give  you  three  pence 


again. 


Froth.    No,  indeed. 

Clo.  Very  well :  you  being  then,  if  you  be  remem 
bered,  cracking  the  stones  of  the  aforesaid  prunes. 

Froth.    Ay,  so  I  did,  indeed. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well:  I  telling  you  then,  if  you  be 
remembered,  that  such  a  one,  and  such  a  one,  were 
past  cure  of  the  thing  you  wot  of,  unless  they  kept  very 
good  diet,  as  I  told  you. 

Froth.    All  this  is  true. 

Clo.    Why,  very  well  then. 

EscaL  Come,  you  are  a  tedious  fool:  to  the  pur 
pose. — What  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife,  that  he  hath 


350  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  II. 

cause  to  complain  of?     Come  me   to  what  was   done 
to  her. 

Clo.    Sir,  your  honor  cannot  come  to  that  yet. 

EscaL    No,  sir,  nor  I  mean  it  not. 

Clo.  Sir,  but  you  shall  come  to  it,  by  your  honor's 
leave  :  and,  I  beseech  you,  look  into  master  Froth  here, 
sir ;  a  man  of  fourscore  pound  a  year ;  whose  father 
died  at  Hallow7mas  : — was't  not  at  Hallowmas,  master 
Froth  ? 

Froth.    All-hallond  l  eve. 

Clo.  Why,  very  well ;  I  hope  here  be  truths.  He, 
sir,  sitting,  as  I  say,  in  a  lower  chair,  sir ; — 'twas  in  the 
Bunch  of  Grapes,  where,  indeed,  you  have  a  delight  to 
sit :  have  you  not  ? 

Froth.  I  have  so ;  because  it  is  an  open  room,  and 
good  for  winter. 

Clo.    Why,  very  well  then  : — I  hope  here  be  truths. 

Ang.    This  will  last  out  a  night  in  Russia, 
When  nights  are  longest  there  :   I'll  take  my  leave, 
And  leave  you  to  the  hearing  of  the  cause ; 
Hoping  you'll  find  good  cause  to  whip  them  all. 

Escal.    I  think  no  less ;  good  morrow  to  your  lord 
ship.  [Exit  ANGELO. 
Now,  sir,  come  on :  What  was  done  to  Elbow's  wife, 
once  more  ? 

Clo.  Once,  sir  ?  There  was  nothing  done  to  her 
once. 

Elb.  I  beseech  you,  sir,  ask  him  what  this  man  did 
to  my  wife. 

Clo.    J  beseech  your  honor,  ask  me. 

Escal.    Well,  sir:   what  did  this  gentleman  to  her? 

Clo.  1  beseech  you,  sir,  look  in  this  gentleman's 
face  : — good  master  Froth,  look  upon  his  honor ;  'tis 
for  a  good  purpose  :  doth  your  honor  mark  his  face  ? 

Escal.    Ay,  sir,  very  well. 

Clo.    Nay,  I  beseech  you,  mark  it  well. 

Escal.    Well,  I  do  so. 

Clo.    Doth  your  honor  see  any  harm  in  his  face  ? 

l  The  Eve  of  All  Saints'  clay. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  351 

EscaL    Why,  no. 

Clo.  I'll  be  supposed  upon  a  book,  his  face  is  the 
worst  thing  about  him  :  good  then  ;  if  his  face  be  the 
worst  thing  about  him,  how  could  master  Froth  do  the 
constable's  wife  any  harm  ?  I  would  know  that  of  your 
honor. 

EscaL  He's  in  the  right :  constable,  what  say  you 
to  it  ? 

Elb.  First,  an  it  like  you,  the  house  is  a  respected 
house :  next,  this  is  a  respected  fellow ;  and  his  mis 
tress  is  a  respected  woman. 

Clo.  By  this  hand,  sir,  his  wife  is  a  more  respected 
person  than  any  of  us  all. 

Elb.  Varlet,  thou  liest ;  thou  liest,  wicked  varlet : 
the  time  is  yet  to  come,  that  she  was  ever  respected 
with  man,  woman,  or  child. 

Clo.  Sir,  she  was  respected  with  him  before  he 
married  with  her. 

EscaL  Which  is  the  wiser  here  ?  Justice,  or  In 
iquity  ?  Is  this  true  ? 

Elb.  O  thou  caitiff!  O  thou  varlet!  O  thou  wicked 
Hannibal !  I  respected  with  her,  before  I  was  married 
to  her  ?  If  ever  I  was  respected  with  her,  or  she  with 
me,  let  not  your  worship  think  me  the  poor  duke's 
officer  : — prove  this,  thou  wicked  Hannibal,  or  I'll  have 
mine  action  of  battery  on  thee. 

EscaL  If  he  took  you  a  box  o'  th'  ear,  you  might 
have  your  action  of  slander  too. 

Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  good  worship  for  it :  what 
is't  your  worship's  pleasure  I  should  do  with  this 
wicked  caitiff? 

EscaL  Truly,  officer,  because  he  has  some  offences 
in  him,  that  thou  wouldst  discover  if  thou  couldst,  let 
him  continue  in  his  courses  till  thou  knovv'st  what 
they  are. 

Elb.  Marry,  I  thank  your  worship  for  it : — thou 
seest,  thou  wicked  varlet  now,  what's  come  upon  thee  ; 
thou  art  to  continue  now,  thou  varlet ;  thou  art  to  con 
tinue. 

EscaL    Where  were  you  born,  friend  ?    [To  FROTH 


352  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  11. 

Froth.    Here  in  Vienna,  sir. 

EscaL    Are  you  of  fourscore  pounds  a  year  ? 

Froth.    Yes,  and't  please  you,  sir. 

EscaL    So. — What  trade  are  you  of,  sir  ? 

[To  the  Clown. 

Clo.    A  tapster  ;  a  poor  widow's  tapster. 

EscaL    Your  mistress's  name  ? 

Clo.    Mistress  Over-done. 

EscaL    Hath  she  had  any  more  than  one  husband  ? 

Clo.    Nine,  sir ;   Over-done  by  the  last. 

EscaL  Nine! — Come  hither  to  me,  master  Froth. 
Master  Froth,  I  would  not  have  you  acquainted  with 
tapsters ;  they  will  draw  you,  master  Froth,  and  you 
will  hang  them :  get  you  gone,  and  let  me  hear  no 
more  of  you. 

Froth.  1  thank  your  worship ;  for  mine  own  part,  1 
never  come  into  any  room  in  a  taphouse,  but  I  am 
drawn  in. 

EscaL  Well ;  no  more  of  it,  master  Froth  :  fare 
well.  [Exit  FROTH.] — Corne  you  hither  to  me,  mas 
ter  tapster  ;  what's  your  name,  master  tapster  ? 

Clo.    Pompey. 

EscaL    What  else  ? 

Clo.   Bum,  sir. 

EscaL  'Troth,  and  your  bum  is  the  greatest  thing 
about  you :  so  that,  in  the  beastliest  sense,  you  are 
Pompey  the  Great.  Pompey,  you  are  partly  a  bawd, 
Pompey,  howsoever  you  color  it  in  being  a  tapster. 
Are  you  not  ?  come,  tell  me  true  ;  it  shall  be  the  better 
for  you. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  that  would 
live. 

EscaL  How  would  you  live,  Pompey  ?  By  being 
a  bawd  ?  What  do  you  think  of  the  trade,  Pompey  ? 
is  it  a  lawful  trade  ? 

Clo.    If  the  law  would  allow  it,  sir. 

EscaL  But  the  law  will  riot  allow  it,  Pompey  ;  nor  it 
shall  not  be  allowed  in  Vienna. 

Clo.  Does  your  worship  mean  to  geld  and  spay  all 
the  youth  in  the  city  ? 


SC.  1.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  353 

Escal.   No,  Pompey. 

Clo.  Truly,  sir,  in  my  poor  opinion,  they  will  to't 
then  :  if  your  worship  will  take  order  for  the  drabs  and 
the  knaves,  you  need  not  to  fear  the  bawds. 

Escal.  There  are  pretty  orders  beginning,  I  can 
tell  you :  it  is  but  heading  and  hanging. 

Clo.  If  you  head  and  hang  all  that  offend  that  way 
but  for  ten  year  together,  you'll  be  glad  to  give  out  a 
commission  for  more  heads.  If  this  law  hold  in  Vienna 
ten  year,  I'll  rent  the  fairest  house  in  it,  after  three 
pence  a  bay  :  *  if  you  live  to  see  this  come  to  pass,  say, 
Pompey  told  you  so. 

Escal.  Thank  you,  good  Pompey ;  and,  in  requital 
of  your  prophecy,  hark  you, — I  advise  you,  let  me  not 
find  you  before  me  again  upon  any  complaint  whatso 
ever,  no,  not  for  dwelling  where  you  do  ;  if  I  do,  Pom 
pey,  I  shall  beat  you  to  your  tent,  and  prove  a  shrewd 
Caesar  to  you  ;  in  plain  dealing,  Pompey,  I  shall  have 
you  whipped  :  so  for  this  time,  Pompey,  fare  you  well. 

Clo.  I  thank  your  worship  for  your  good  counsel : 
but  I  shall  follow  it  as  the  flesh  and  fortune  shall  better 
determine. 

Whip  me  ?  No,  no  ;  let  carman  whip  his  jade  ; 
The  valiant  heart's  not  whipped  out  of  his  trade. 

[Exit. 

Escal.  Come  hither  to  me,  master  Elbow ;  come 
hither,  master  constable.  How  long  have  you  been 
in  this  place  of  constable  ? 

Elb.    Seven  year  and  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  I  thought,  by  your  readiness  in  the  office, 
you  had  continued  in  it  some  time  :  you  say,  seven 
years  together  ? 

Elb.    And  a  half,  sir. 

Escal.  Alas !  it  hath  been  great  pains  to  you ! 
They  do  you  wTong  to  put  you  so  oft  upon't :  are  there 
not  men  in  your  ward  sufficient  to  serve  it  ? 

Elb.    Faith,  sir,  few  of  any  wit  in  such  matters :  as 


1  A  bay  is  a  principal  division  in  building,  as  a  6am  of  three  bays  is  a 
barn  twice  crossed  by  beams. 
VOL.  i.  45 


354  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  Ii. 

they  are  chosen,  they  are  glad  to  choose  me  for  them : 
I  do  it  for  some  piece  of  money,  and  go  through 
with  all. 

EscaL    Look  you,  bring  me  in  the  names  of  some 
six  or  seven,  the  most  sufficient  of  your  parish. 

Elb.    To  your  worship's  house,  sir? 

EscaL    To  my  house:    fore  you  well.       [Exit  EL 
BOW.]     What's  o'clock,  think  you  ? 

Just.    Eleven,  sir. 

EscaL    I  pray  you  home  to  dinner  with  me. 

Just.    I  humbly  thank  you. 

EscaL    It  grieves  me  for  the  death  of  Claudio; 
But  there's  no  remedy. 

Just.    Lord  Angelo  is  severe. 

EscaL  It  is  but  needful : 

Mercy  is  not  itself  that  oft  looks  so ; 
Pardon  is  still  the  nurse  of  second  woe : 
But  yet, — Poor  Claudio  ! — There's  no  remedy. 
Come,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 


Enter  Provost  and  a  Servant. 

Serv.    He's    hearing   of    a    cause ;    he   will   come 

straight. 
I'll  tell  him  of  you. 

Prov.    Pray  you,  do.     [Exit  Servant.]    I'll  know 
His  pleasure  :  may  be,  he  will  relent :  alas, 
He  hath  but  as  offended  in  a  dream  ! 
All  sects,  all  ages  smack  of  this  vice  ;  and  he 
To  die  for  it ! — 

Enter  ANGELO. 

Ang.  Now,  what's  the  matter,  provost. 

Prov.    Is  it  your  will  Claudio  shall  die  to-morrow  ? 
Aug.    Did  I  not   tell  thee,  yea  ?     Hadst  thou  not 

order  ? 
Why  dost  thou  ask  again  ? 

Prov.  Lest  I  might  be  too  rash : 


F 


SC.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  355 

Under  jour  good  correction,  I  have  seen, 
When,  after  execution,  judgment  hath 
Repented  o'er  his  doom. 

Aug.  Go  to ;  let  that  be  mine  : 

Do  you  jour  office,  or  give  up  jour  place, 
And  jou  shall  well  be  spared. 

Prov.  I  crave  jour  honor's  pardon. — 

What  shall  be  done,  sir,  with  the  groaning  Juliet  ? 
She's  verj  near  her  hour. 

Ang.  Dispose  of  her 

To  some  more  fitter  place ;  and  that  with  speed. 

Re-enter  Servant. 

Serv.    Here  is  the  sister  of  the  man  condemned, 
Desires  access  to  jou. 

Ang.  Hath  he  a  sister  ? 

Prov.    Aj,  my  good  lord  ;  a  very  virtuous  maid, 
And  to  be  shortly  of  a  sisterhood, 
If  not  already. 

Ang.  Well,  let  her  be  admitted. 

[Exit  Servant. 

See  you  the  fornicatress  be  removed : 
Let  her  have  needful,  but  not  lavish,  means ; 
There  shall  be  order  for  it. 


Enter  Lucio  and  ISABELLA. 

Prov.    Save  your  honor.  [Offering  to  retire. 

Ang.    Stay  a   little  while. — [To  Isab.]      You   are 
welcome  :  What's  your  will  ? 

hob.    I  am  a  woful  suitor  to  your  honor  ; 
Please  but  your  honor  hear  me. 

Ang.    Well ;  what's  your  suit  ? 

Isab.    There  is  a  vice,  that  most  1  do  abhor, 
And  most  desire  should  meet  the  blow  of  justice ; 
For  which  I  would  not  plead,  but  that  I  must ; 
For  which  I  must  not  plead,  but  that  I  am 
At  war  'twixt  will  and  will  not. 

Ang.  Well;  the  matter? 


35S  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  II. 

Takes  note  of  what  is  done  ;  and,  like  a  prophet, 
Looks  in  a  glass,1  that  shows  what  future  evils, 
(Either  now>  or  by  remissness  new-conceived, 
And  so  in  progress  to  be  hatched  and  born,) 
Are  now  to  have  no  successive  degrees, 
But,  where  they  live,  to  end. 

Isab.  Yet  show  some  pity. 

Aug.    I  show  it  most  of  all,  when  I  show  justice  ; 
For  then  I  pity  those  I  do  not  know, 
Which  a  dismissed  offence  would  after  gall ; 
And  do  him  right,  that,  answering  one  foul  wrong, 
Lives  not  to  act  another.     Be  satisfied : 
Your  brother  dies  to-morrow :  be  content. 

Isab.    So   you    must   be    the    first,  that   gives    this 

sentence ; 

And  he,  that  suffers.     O,  it  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength  ;  but  it  is  tyrannous 
To  use  it  like  a  giant. 

Lucio.  That's  well  said. 

Isab.    Could  great  men  thunder 
As  Jove  himself  does,  Jove  would  ne'er  be  quiet ; 
For  every  pelting,2  petty  officer, 

Would  use  his  heaven  for  thunder ;  nothing  but  thun 
der. 

Merciful  Heaven ! 

Thou  rather,  with  thy  sharp  and  sulphurous  bolt, 

Split'st  the  unwedgeable  and  gnarled  oak, 

Than  the  soft  myrtle  : — But  man,  proud  man  ! 

Dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority, — 

Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured, 

His  glassy  essence, — like  an  angry  ape, 

Plays  such  fantastic  tricks  before  high  Heaven, 

As  make  the  angels  weep  ;  who,  with  our  spleens, 

Would  all  themselves  laugh  mortal. 

o 

Lucio.    O,  to  him,  to  him,  wench:  he  will  relent; 
He's  coming  ;   I  perceive't. 

Prov.  Pray  Heaven,  she  win  him! 

1  This  c.lludes  to  the  deceptions  of  the  fortune-tellers,  who  pretended 
to  see  future  events  in  a  beryl,  or  crystal  glass. 

2  Pelting  for  paltry. 


SC  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  359 

Isab.    We  cannot  weigh  oar  brother  with  ourself : 
Great  men  may  jest  with  saints  :  'tis  wit  in  them  ! 
But,  in  the  less,  foul  profanation. 

Lucio.    Thou'rt  in  the  right,  girl ;  more  o'  that. 

Isab.    That  in  the  captain  's  but  a  choleric  word, 
Which  in  the  soldier  is  flat  blasphemy. 

Lucio.    Art  advised  o'  that  ?     More  on't. 

Aug.    Why  do  you  put  these  sayings  upon  me  ? 

Isab.    Because  authority,  though  it  err  like  others, 
Hath  yet  a  kind  of  medicine  in  itself, 
That  skins  the  vice  o'  the  top  : l  go  to  your  bosom  ; 
Knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  doth  know 
That's  like  my  brother's  fault :  if  it  confess 
A  natural  guiltiness,  such  as  is  his, 
Let  it  not  sound  a  thought  upon  your  tongue 
Against  my  brother's  life. 

Ang.  She  speaks,  and  'tis 

Such  sense,   that  my  sense   breeds  with  it.2 Fare 

you  well. 

Isab.    Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back. 

Ang.    I  will  bethink  me  : — Come  again  to-morrow. 

Isab.    Hark,  how  I'll    bribe   you :    good    my   lord, 
turn  back. 

Ang.    How !  Bribe  me  ? 

Isab.    Ay,  with  such  gifts,  that  heaven  shall  share 
with  you. 

Lucio.    You  had  marred  all  else. 

Isab.   Not  with  fond 3  shekels  of  the  tested  gold, 
Or  stones,  whose  rates  are  either  rich,  or  poor, 
As  fancy  values  them ;  but  with  true  prayers, 
That  shall  be  up  at  heaven,  and  enter  there, 
Ere  sunrise;  prayers  from  preserved  souls, 
From  fasting  maids,  whose  minds  are  dedicate 
To  nothing  temporal. 

Ang.  Well ;  come  to  me 

To-morrow. 

1  Shakspeare  has  used  this  indelicate  metaphor  again  in  Hamlet: — "It 
will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place." 

2  i.  e.  such  sense  as  breeds  or  produces  a  consequence  in  his  mind. 
Malone  thought  that  sense  here  meant  sensual  desire. 

3  Fond  hero  signifies  ovei-valued  or  prized  by  folly. 


3GO  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  II. 

Lucio.    Goto;  it  is  well ;  away.    [Aside  to  Is  ABEL. 

Isab.    Heaven  keep  your  honor  safe  ! 

Ang.  Amen. 

For  I  am  that  way  going  to  temptation,  [Aside. 

Where  prayers  cross.1 

Isab.  At  what  hour  to-morrow 

Shall  I  attend  your  lordship  ? 

Ang.  At  any  time  'fore  noon. 

Isab.    Save  your  honor  ! 

[Exeunt  Lucio,  ISABELLA,  and  Provost. 

Ang.  From  thee  ;  even  from  thy  virtue. — 

What's    this  ?    What's    this  ?      Is    this    her    fault,    or 

mine  ? 

The  tempter,  or  the  tempted,  who  sins  most  ?     Ha ! 
Not  she  ;  nor  doth  she  tempt :  but  it  is  I, 
That,  lying  by  the  violet,  in  the  sun, 
Do,  as  the  carrion  does,  not  as  the  flower, 
Corrupt  with  virtuous  season.2     Can  it  be, 
That  modesty  may  more  betray  our  sense 3 
Than    woman's    lightness  ?       Having   waste     ground 

enough, 

Shall  we  desire  to  raze  the  sanctuary, 
And  pitch  our  evils  there  ?     O,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 
What  dost  thou  ?     Or,  what  art  thoti,  Angelo  ? 
Dost  thou  desire  her  foully,  for  those  things 
That  make  her  good  ?     O,  let  her  brother  live  : 
Thieves  for  their  robbery  have  authority, 
When  judges    steal    themselves.      What?    do  I    love 

her, 

That  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again, 
And  feast  upon  her  eyes  ?     What  is't  I  dream  on  ? 
O  cunning  enemy,  that,  to  catch  a  saint, 
With  saints  dost  bait  thy  hook.     Most  dangerous 


1  The  petition  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation," 
is  here  considered  as  crossing  or  intercepting  the  way  in  which  Angelo 
was  going:  he  was  exposing  himself  to  temptation  by  the  appointment  for 
the  morrow's  meeting. 

~  I  am  corrupted,  not  by  her,  but  by  my  own  heart,  which  excites  foul 
desires  under  the  same  influences  that  exalt  her  purity,  as  the  carrion 
grows  putrid  by  those  beams  that  increase  the  fragrance  of  the  violet. 

3  Sense  for  sensual  appetite. 


SC.  III.]  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  361 

Is  that  temptation,  that  doth  goad  us  on 
To  sin  in  loving  virtue  :  never  could  the  strumpet, 
With  all  her  double  vigor,  art  and  nature, 
Once  stir  my  temper ;  but  this  virtuous  maid 
Subdues  me  quite  ; — ever,  till  now, 
When  men  were  fond,  I  smiled,  and  wondered  how ! l 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  a  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  habited  like  a  friar,  and  Provost. 

Duke.    Hail  to  you,  provost !  so  1  think  you  are. 

Prov.    I  am  the  provost :  what's  your  will,  good  friar  ? 

Duke.    Bound  by  my  charity,  and  my  blest  order, 
I  come  to  visit  the  afflicted  spirits 
Here  in  the  prison :  do  me  the  common  right 
To  let  me  see  them ;  and  to  make  me  know 
The  nature  of  their  crimes,  that  I  may  minister 
To  them  accordingly. 

Prov.    I   would  do  more   than   that,  if  more  were 
needful. 

Enter  JULIET. 

Look,  here  comes  one ;  a  gentlewoman  of  mine. 
Who,  falling  in  the  flames 2  of  her  own  youth, 
Hath  blistered  her  report :  she  is  with  child ; 
And  he  that  got  it,  sentenced  ; — a  young  man 
More  fit  to  do  another  such  offence, 
Than  die  for  this. 

Duke.  When  must  he  die  ? 

Prov.    As  I  do  think,  to-morrow. — 
I  have  provided  for  you  ;  stay  a  while,        [To  JULIET. 
And  you  shall  be  conducted. 

Duke.    Repent  you,  fair  one,  of  the  sin  you  carry  ? 

Juliet.    I  do ;  and  bear  the  shame  most  patiently. 

Duke.    I'll  teach  you  how  you  shall   arraign  your 
conscience, 

1  Dr.  Johnson  thinks  the  second  act  should  end  here. 

2  The  folio  reads  Jlawes. 
VOL.  i.  46 


362  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  Ji 

And  try  your  penitence,  if  it  be  sound, 
Or  hollowly  put  on. 

Juliet.  I'll  gladly  learn. 

Duke.    Love  you  the  man  that  wronged  you  ? 

Juliet.    Yes,  as  I  love  the  woman  that  wronged  him. 

Duke.    So  then,  it  seems,  your  most  offenceful  act 
Was  mutually  committed  ? 

Juliet.  Mutually. 

Duke.    Then  was  your  sin  of  heavier  kind  than  his. 

Juliet.    I  do  confess  it,  and  repent  it,  father. 

Duke.    'Tis    meet  so,  daughter :    but   lest   you  do 

repent, 

As  that  the  sin  hath  brought  you  to  this  shame, — 
Which  sorrow  is  always  toward  ourselves,  not  heaven, 
Showing,  we'd  not  spare  l  heaven  as  we  love  it, 
But  as  we  stand  in  fear, — 

Juliet.    I  do  repent  me,  as  it  is  an  evil ; 
And  take  the  shame  with  joy. 

Duke.  There  rest. 

Your  partner,  as  I  hear,  must  die  to-morrow, 
And  I  am  going  with  instruction  to  him. — 
Grace  go  with  you  !     Benedicite !  [Exit. 

Juliet.    Must  die  to-morrow  !     O,  injurious  love,2 
That  respites  me  a  life,  whose  very  comfort 
Is  still  a  dying  horror ! 

Prov.  'Tis  pity  of  him.      [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Angelo's  House. 


Enter  ANGELO. 

Aug.    When  I  would  pray  and  think,  I  think  and 

pray 

To  several  subjects  :  Heaven  hath  my  empty  words ; 
Whilst  my  invention,3  hearing  not  my  tongue, 

1  i.  e.  not  spare  to  offend  heaven. 

2  "  O  injurious  /ore."     Sir  Thomas  Hanmer  proposed  to  read  law  in 
stead  of  love. 

3  Invention  for  imagination. 


SC.  IV.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  363 

Anchors  on  Isabel :  Heaven  in  my  mouth, 

As  if  I  did  but  only  chew  his  name ; 

And  in  my  heart,  the  strong  and  swelling  evil 

Of  my  conception.     The  state,  whereon  I  studied, 

Is  like  a  good  thing,  being  often  read, 

Grown  feared  and  tedious ;  yea,  my  gravity, 

Wherein  (let  no  man  hear  me)  I  take  pride, 

Could  I,  with  boot,1  change  for  an  idle  plume, 

Which  the  air  beats  for  vain.     O  place  !  O  form  ! 

How  often  dost  thou  with  thy  case,  thy  habit, 

Wrench  awe  from  fools,  and  tie  the  wiser  souls 

To  thy  false  seeming  ?     Blood,  thou  still  art  blood  ! 

Let's  write  good  angel  on  the  devil's  horn, 

3Tis  not  the  devil's  crest.2 

Enter  Servant. 

How  now  :  who's  there  ? 

Serv.  One  Isabel,  a  sister, 

Desires  access  to  you. 

Ang.  Teach  her  the  way.     [Exit  Serv. 

O  heavens ! 

Why  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heart ; 
Making  both  it  unable  for  itself, 
And  dispossessing  all  the  other  parts 
Of  necessary  fitness  ? 

So  play  the  foolish  throngs  with  one  that  swoons; 
Come  all  to  help  him,  and  so  stop  the  air 
By  which  he  should  revive  :  and  even  so 
The  general,3  subject  to  a  well-wished  king, 
Quit  their  own  part,  and  in  obsequious  fondness 
Crowd  to  his  presence,  where  their  untaught  love 
Must  needs  appear  offence. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

How  now,  fair  maid  ? 

Isab.    I  am  come  to  know  your  pleasure. 

1  Boot  is  profit 

2  «  Though  we  should  write  good  angel  on  the  devil's  horn,  it  will  not 
change  his  nature,  so  as  to  give  him  a  right  to  wear  that  crest" 

3  i.  e.  the  people  or  multitude. 


364  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  II. 

Ang.    That  you  might  know  it,  would  much  better 

please  me, 
Than  to  demand  what  'tis.     Your  brother  cannot  live. 

Isab.    Even  so  ? — Heaven  keep  jour  honor ! 

[Retiring. 

Ang.    Yet  may  he  live  awhile ;  and  it  may  be, 
As  long  as  you,  or  I :  yet  he  must  die. 

Isab.    Under  your  sentence  ? 

Ang.   Yea. 

Isab.    When,  I  beseech  you  ?     That  in  his  reprieve, 
Longer,  or  shorter,  he  may  be  so  fitted, 
That  his  soul  sicken  not. 

Ang.    Ha  !    Fie,  these  filthy  vices  !     It  were  as  good 
To  pardon  him,  that  hath  from  nature  stolen 
A  man  already  made,1  as  to  remit 
Their  saucy  sweetness,  that  do  coin  heaven's  image 
In  stamps  that  are  forbid :  'tis  all  as  easy 
Falsely  to  take  away  a  life  true  made, 
As  to  put  mettle  in  restrained  means, 
To  make  a  false  one. 

Isab.    'Tis  set  down  so  in  heaven,  but  not  in  earth. 

Ang.    Say  you  so  ?     Then  I  shall  pose  you  quickly. 
Which  had  you  rather,  that  the  most  just  law 
Now  took  your  brother's  life  ;  or,  to  redeem  him, 
Give  up  your  body  to  such  sweet  uncleanness, 
As  she  that  he  hath  stained  ? 

Isab.  Sir,  believe  this, 

I  had  rather  give  my  body  than  my  soul. 

Ang.    I  talk  not  of  your  soul :  our  compelled  sins 
Stand  more  for  number  than  account.2 

Isab.  How  say  you  ? 

Ang.    Nay,  I'll  not  warrant  that;  for  1  can  speak 
Against  the  thing  I  say.     Answer  to  this  : — 
I,  now  the  voice  of  the  recorded  law, 
Pronounce  a  sentence  on  your  brother's  life  : 
Might  there  not  be  a  charity  in  sin, 
To  save  this  brother's  life  ? 

1  i.  e.  that  hath  killed  a  man. 

2  i.  e.  actions  that  we  are  compelled  to,  however  numerous,  are  not 
imputed  to  us  by  Heaven  as  crimes. 


SC.  IV.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  3G5 

fsab.  Please  you  to  do't, 

I'll  take  it  as  a  peril  to  my  soul, 
It  is  no  sin  at  all,  but  charity. 

Ang.    Pleased  you  to  do't,  at  peril  of  your  soul, 
Were  equal  poise  of  sin  and  charity. 

Isab.    That  I  do  beg  his  life,  if  it  be  sin, 
Heaven,  let  me  bear  it !  you  granting  of  my  suit, 
If  that  be  sin,  I'll  make  it  my  morn  prayer 
To  have  it  added  to  the  faults  of  mine, 
And  nothing  of  your  answer. 

Ang.  Nay,  but  hear  me  : 

Your  sense  pursues  not  mine :  either  you  are  ignorant, 
Or  seem  so,  craftily  ;  and  that's  not  good. 

Isab.    Let  me  be  ignorant,  and  in  nothing  good, 
But  graciously  to  know  I  am  no  better. 

Ang.    Thus  wisdom  wishes  to  appear  most  bright, 
When  it  doth  tax  itself:  as  these  black  masks  1 
Proclaim  an  enshield  2  beauty  ten  times  louder 
Than  beauty  could  displayed. — But  mark  me  ; 
To  be  received  plain,  I'll  speak  more  gross : 
Your  brother  is  to  die. 

Isab.    So. 

Ang.    And  his  offence  is  so,  as  it  appears 
Accountant  to  the  law  upon  that  pain. 

Isab.    True. 

Ang.    Admit  no  other  way  to  save  his  life, 
(As  I  subscribe  not  that,  nor  any  other, 
But  in  the  loss  of  question,3)  that  you,  his  sister, 
Finding  yourself  desired  of  such  a  person, 
Whose  credit  with  the  judge,  or  own  great  place, 
Could  fetch  your  brother  from  the  manacles 
Of  the  all-binding  law ;  and  that  there  were 
No  earthly  mean  to  save  him,  but  that  either 
You  must  lay  down  the  treasures  of  your  body 
To  this  supposed,  or  else  to  let  him  suffer ; 
What  would  you  do  ? 

Isab.    As  much  for  my  poor  brother,  as  myself: 

i  The  masks  worn  by  female  spectators  of  the  play  are  here  probably 
meant. 

~  i.  e.  enshielded,  covered. 

3  i.  e.  conversation  that  tends  to  nothing. 


366  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  [ACT  II 

That  is,  were  I  under  the  terms  of  death, 

The  impression  of  keen  whips  Pd  wear  as  rubies. 

And  strip  myself  to  death,  as  to  a  bed 

That  longing  I  have  been  sick  for,  ere  Pd  yield 

My  body  up  to  shame. 

Ang.  Then  must  your  brother  die. 

Isab.  And  'twere  the  cheaper  way : 
Better  it  were,  a  brother  died  at  once, 
Than  that  a  sister,  by  redeeming  him, 
Should  die  forever. 

Ang.    Were  not  you  then  as  cruel  as  the  sentence 
That  you  have  slandered  so  ? 

Isab.    Ignomy 1  in  ransom,  and  free  pardon, 
Are  of  two  houses :  lawful  mercy  is 
Nothing  akin  to  foul  redemption. 

Ang.    You  seemed  of  late  to  make  the  law  a  tyrant ; 
And  rather  proved  the  sliding  of  your  brother 
A  merriment  than  a  vice. 

Isab.    O  pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  it  oft  falls  out, 
To  have  what  we'd  have,  we  speak  not  what  we  mean  . 
I  something  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate, 
For  his  advantage  that  I  dearly  love. 

Ang.    We  are  all  frail. 

Isab.  Else  let  my  brother  die, 

If  not  a  feodary,  but  only  he, 
Owe,  and  succeed  by  weakness.2 

Ang.  Nay,  women  are  frail,  too. 

Isab.    Ay,  as  the  glasses  where  they  view  themselves  ; 
Which  are  as  easy  broke  as  they  make  forms. 
Women  ! — Help  Heaven  !  men  their  creation  mar 
In  profiting  by  them.3     Nay,  call  us  ten  times  frail ; 

1  Ignomy,  ignominy. 

~  This  is  obscure ;  but  the  allusion  is  so  fine,  that  it  deserves  to  be  ex 
plained.  Afcodarij  was  one  that,  in  times  of  vassalage,  held  lands  of  the 
chief  lord  under  the  tenure  of  paying  rent  and  service,  which  tenure  was 


called ft uda,  among-  the  Goths.  "Now,"  says  Angelo,  "we  are  all  frail.'1 
"Yes,"  says  Isabella,  "if  all  mankind  were  not  fcotlaries,  who  owe  what 
they  are  to  this  tenure  of  imbecility,  and  who  succeed  each  other  by  the 
same  tenure  as  well  as  my  brother,  I  would  give  him  up."  The  comparing 
mankind  lying  under  the  weight  of  original  sin,  to  a  feodary  who  owes 
suit  and  service  to  his  lord,  is  not  ill  imagined. 

[]  The  meaning  appears  to  be,  that  "  men  debase  their  natures  by  taking 
ndvantao-e  of  women's  weakness."  She  therefore  calls  on  Heaven  to  as 
sist  them. 


SC.  IV.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  367 

For  we  are  soft  as  our  complexions  are, 
And  credulous  to  false  prints.1 

Ang.  I  think  it  well  : 

And  from  this  testimony  of  your  own  sex, 
(Since,  I  suppose,  we  are  made  to  be  no  stronger 
Than  faults  may  shake  our  frames,)  let  me  be  bold ; — 
I  do  arrest  your  words  :  Be  that  you  are, 
That  is,  a  woman ;  if  you  be  more,  you're  none : 
If  you  be  one,  (as  you  are  well  expressed 
By  all  external  warrants,)  show  it  now, 
By  putting  on  the  destined  livery. 

Isab.    I  have  no  tongue  but  one  :  gentle  my  lord, 
Let  me  entreat  you  speak  the  former  language. 

Ang.    Plainly  conceive,  I  love  you. 

Isab.    My  brother  did  love  Juliet ;  and  you  tell  me, 
That  he  shall  die  for  it. 

Ang.    He  shall  not,  Isabel,  if  you  give  me  love. 

Isab.    I  know,  your  virtue  hath  a  license  in't, 
Which  seems  a  little  fouler  than  it  is, 
To  pluck  on  others.2 

Ang.  Believe  me,  on  mine  honor, 

My  words  express  my  purpose. 

Isab.    Ha  !     Little  honor  to  be  much  believed, 
And  most  pernicious  purpose  ! — Seeming,  seeming ! 3 — 
I  will  proclaim  thee,  Angelo  ;  look  for't : 
Sign  me  a  present  pardon  for  my  brother, 
Or,  with  an  outstretched  throat,  I'll  tell  the  world, 
Aloud,  what  man  thou  art. 

Ang.  Who  will  believe  thee,  Isabel  ? 

My  unsoiled  name,  the  austereness  of  my  life, 
My  vouch  against  you,  and  my  place  i'  the  state, 
Will  so  your  accusation  overweigh, 
That  you  shall  stifle  in  your  own  report, 
And  smell  of  calumny.     I  have  begun ; 
And  now  I  give  my  sensual  race  the  rein  : 
Fit  thy  consent  to  my  sharp  appetite ; 

1  i.  e.  impressions 

2  i.  c.  "  your  virtue  assumes  an  air  of  licentiousness,  which  is  not  natu 

ral  to  you,  on  purpose  to  try  me." 

3  Seeming  is  hypocrisy. 


368  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  II. 

Lay  by  all  nicety,  and  prolixious  blushes, 

That  banish  what  they  sue  for ;  redeem  thy  brother 

By  yielding  up  thy  body  to  my  will ; 

Or  else  he  must  not  only  die  the  death, 

But  thy  un kindness  shall  his  death  draw  out 

To  lingering  sufferance  :  answer  me  to-morrow, 

o  O 

Or,  by  the  affection  that  now  guides  me  most, 

I'll  prove  a  tyrant  to  him  :  as  for  you, 

Say  what  you  can,  my  false  o'erweighs  your  true. 

[Exit. 

Isab.    To  whom  shall  I  complain?     Did  I  tell  this, 
Who  would  believe  me  ?     O  perilous  mouths, 
That  bear  in  them  one  and  the  self-same  tongue, 
Either  of  condemnation  or  approof! 
Bidding  the  law  make  courtesy  to  their  will ; 
Hooking  both  right  and  wrong  to  the  appetite. 
To  follow  as  it  draws  !     I'll  to  my  brother  : 
Though  he  hath  fallen  by  prompture  1  of  the  blood, 
Yet  hath  he  in  him  such  a  mind  of  honor, 
That  had  he  twenty  heads  to  tender  down 
On  twenty  bloody  blocks,  he'd  yield  them  up, 
Before  his  sister  should  her  body  stoop 
To  such  abhorred  pollution. 
Then,  Isabel,  live  chaste,  and,  brother,  die  : 
More  than  our  brother  is  our  chastity. 
I'll  tell  him  yet  of  Angelo's  request, 
And  fit  his  mind  to  death,  for  his  soul's  rest          \_Exit. 

1  i.  e.  temptation,  instigation. 


SO.  I.J          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  369 

ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  the  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  CLAUDIO,  and  Provost. 

Duke.    So,    then   you   hope    of    pardon    from   lord 
Angelo  ? 

Claud.    The  miserable  have  no  other  medicine, 
But  only  hope : 
I  have  hope  to  live,  and  am  prepared  to  die. 

Duke.    Be  absolute  for  death  ;  either  death  or  life 
Shall  thereby  be    the    sweeter.       Reason    thus   with 

life,— 

If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep  : 1  a  breath  thou  art, 
(Servile  to  all  the  skyey  influences,) 
That  dost  this  habitation,  where  thou  keep'st,2 
Hourly  afflict :  merely,  thou  art  death's  fool  ; 
For  him  thou  labor'st  by  thy  flight  to  shun, 
And  yet  runn'st  toward  him  still.     Thou  art  not  noble; 
For  all  the  accommodations  that  thou  bear'st, 
Are    nursed    by   baseness.     Thou    art   by   no   means 

valiant ; 

For  thou  dost  fear  the  soft  and  tender  fork 
Of  a  poor  worm.     Thy  best  of  rest  is  sleep, 
And  that  thou  oft  provok'st ;  yet  grossly  fear'st 
Thy  death,  which  is  no  more.     Thou  art  not  thyself; 
For  thou  exist'st  on  many  a  thousand  grains 
That  issue  out  of  dust.     Happy  thou  art  not  ; 
For  what  thou  hast  not,  still  thou  striv'st  to  get ; 
And  what  thou  hast,  forget'st.     Thou  art  not  certain ; 
For  thy  complexion  shifts  to  strange  affects,3 
After  the  moon.     If  thou  art  rich,  thou  art  poor ; 

1  Keep  here  means  care  for,  a  common  acceptation  of  the  word  in  Chau 
cer  and  later  writers. 

2  i.  e.  dwellest. 

3  The  old  copy  reads  effects.     We  should  read  affects,  i.  e.  affections, 
passions  of  the  mind.     See  Hamlet,  Act  iii.  Sc.  4. 

VOL.  i.  47 


370  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  III. 

For,  like  an  ass,  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 

Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  riches  but  a  journey, 

And  death  unloads  thee.     Friend  hast  thou  none ; 

For  thine  own  bowels,  which  do  call  thee  sire, 

The  mere  effusion  of  thy  proper  loins, 

Do  curse  the  gout,  serpigo,1  and  the  rheum, 

For  ending   thee  no   sooner.      Thou   hast  nor  youth 


nor  age 


But,  as  it  were,  an  after-dinner's  sleep, 
Dreaming  on  both  ;   for  all  thy  blessed  youth 
Becomes  as  aged,  and  doth  beg  the  alms 
Of  palsied  eld  ; 2  and  when  thou  art  old,  and  rich, 
Thou  hast  neither  heat,  affection,  limb,  nor  beauty, 
To  make  thy  riches  pleasant.     What's  yet  in  this 
That  bears  the  name  of  life  ?     Yet  in  this  life 
Lie  hid  more  thousand  deaths ;  yet  death  we  fear, 
That  makes  these  odds  all  even. 

Claud.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

To  sue  to  live,  I  find,  I  seek  to  die : 
And  seeking  death,  find  life  :  let  it  come  on. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Isab.    What,  ho !      Peace    here ;    grace    and    good 

company  ! 
Prov.    Who's  there  ?     Come  in  ;  the  wish  deserves 

a  welcome. 

Duke.    Dear  sir,  ere  long  I'll  visit  you  again. 
Claud.    Most  holy  sir,  I  thank  you. 
Isab.    My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio. 
Prov.    And  very  welcome.     Look,  seignior,    here's 

your  sister. 

Duke.    Provost,  a  word  with  you. 
Prov.  As  many  as  you  please. 

Duke.   Bring  me  to  hear  them  speak,  where  I  may 

be  concealed,3 
Yet  hear  them.  [Exeunt  Duke  and  Provost. 

1  Serpigo  is  a  leprous  eruption.  ~  Old  age, 

3  The  first  folio  reads,  "Bring  them  to  hear  me  speak,"  &c. ;  the  second 
folio  reads,  "  Bring  them  to  speak."     The  emendation  is  by  Steevens. 


SC.  1.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  371 

Claud.    Now,  sister,  what's  the  comfort  ? 

Isab.    Why,  as  all  comforts  are,  most  good  indeed : 
Lord  Aiigelo,  having  affairs  to  Heaven, 
Intends  you  for  his  swift  ambassador, 
Where  you  shall  be  an  everlasting  leiger : l 
Therefore  your  best  appointment 2  make  with  speed ; 
To-morrow  you  set  on. 

Claud.  Is  there  no  remedy  ? 

Isab.    None,  but  such  remedy,  as  to  save  a  head, 
To  cleave  a  heart  in  twain. 

Claud.  But  is  there  any? 

Isab.    Yes,  brother,  you  may  live  ; 
There  is  a  devilish  mercy  in  the  judge, 
If  you'll  implore  it,  that  will  free  your  life, 
But  fetter  you  till  death. 

Claud.  Perpetual  durance  ? 

Isab.    Ay,  just,  perpetual  durance  ;  a  restraint, 
Though  all  the  world's  vastidity3  you  had, 
To  a  determined  scope.4 

Claud.  But  in  what  nature  ? 

Isab.    In  such  a  one  as  (you  consenting  to't) 
Would  bark  your  honor  from  that  trunk  you  bear, 
And  leave  you  naked. 

Claud.  Let  me  know  the  point. 

Isab.    O,  I  do  fear  thee,  Claudio ;  and  I  quake, 
Lest  thou  a  feverous  life  should'st  entertain, 
And  six  or  seven  winters  more  respect 
Than  a  perpetual  honor.     Dar'st  thou  die  ? 
The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension ; 
And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon, 
In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies.5 

1  A  kiger  is  a  resident. 

2  i.  e.  preparation. 

3  i.  e.  vastness  of  extent. 

4  "  To  a  determined  scope  " — a  confinement  of  your  mind  to  one  pain 
ful  idea ;  to  ignominy,  of  which  the  remembrance  can  neither  be  sup 
pressed  nor  escaped. 

5  "  And  the  poor  beetle,  that  we  tread  upon, 

In  corporal  sufferance  finds  a  pang  as  great 
As  when  a  giant  dies." 
This  beautiful  passage  is  in  all  our  minds  and  memories,  but  it  most 


372  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  III. 

Claud.  Why  give  you  me  this  shame  ? 

Think  you  I  can  a  resolution  fetch 
From  flowery  tenderness  ?     If  I  must  die, 
1  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride, 
And  hug  it  in  mine  arms. 

Isab.    There  spake  my  brother ;  there  my  father's 


grave 


Did  utter  forth  a  voice  !     Yes,  thou  must  die  : 

Thou  art  too  noble  to  conserve  a  life 

In  base  appliances.     This  outward-sainted  deputy — 

Whose  settled  visage  and  deliberate  word 

Nips  youth  i'  the  head,  and  follies  doth  enmew,1 

As  falcon  doth  the  fowl — is  yet  a  devil ; 

His  filth  within  being  cast,  he  would  appear 

A  pond  as  deep  as  hell. 

Claud.  The  princely  Angelo  ? 

Isab.    O,  'tis  the  cunning  livery  of  hell, 
The  damned'st  body  to  invest  and  cover 
In  princely  guards  ! 2     Dost  thou  think,  Claudio, 
If  I  would  yield  him  my  virginity, 
Thou  might'st  be  freed  ? 

Claud.  O,  Heavens  !  it  cannot  be. 

Isab.    Yes,   he  would  give   it  thee,  from  this  rank 

offence, 

So  to  offend  him  still :  this  night's  the  time 
That  I  should  do  what  I  abhor  to  name, 
Or  else  thou  diest  to-morrow. 

Claud.  Thou  shalt  not  do't. 

Isab.    O,  were  it  but  my  life, 
I'd  throw  it  down  for  your  deliverance 
As  frankly3  as  a  pin. 

Claud.  Thanks,  my  dear  Isabel. 

Isab.    Be  ready,  Claudio,  for  your  death  to-morrow. 

frequently  stands  in  quotation  detached  from  the  antecedent  line — "The 
sense  of  death  is  most  in  apprehension ; "  without  which  it  is  liable  to  an 
opposite  construction. 

1  To  enmew  is  a  term  in  falconry,  signifying  to  restrain,  to  keep  in  a 
mew  or  cage  either  by  force  or  terror. 

2  Guards  were  trimmings,  facings,  or  other  ornaments  applied  upon  a 
dress.     It  here  stands,  by  synecdoche,  for  dress. 

3  Freely. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  373 

Claud.    Yes. — Has  he  affections  in  him, 
That  thus  can  make  him  bite  the  law  by  the  nose, 
When  lie  would  force  it  ?     Sure  it  is  no  sin  ; 
Or  of  the  deadly  seven  it  is  the  least. 

Isab.    Which  is  the  least  ? 

Claud.    If  it  were  damnable,  he,  being  so  wise, 
Why,  would  he,  for  the  momentary  trick, 
Be  perdurably  fined  ? — O  Isabel ! 

Isab.    What  says  my  brother  ? 

Claud.  Death  is  a  fearful  thing. 

Isab.    And  shamed  life  a  hateful. 

Claud.    Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where  ; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot ; 
This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice  ; 
To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those,  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling  ! — 'tis  too  horrible  ! 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life, 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death. 

Isab.    Alas  !  alas  ! 

Claud.  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live  : 

What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life, 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far, 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue. 

Isab.  O,  you  beast ! 

O,  faithless  coward  !     O,  dishonest  wretch  ! 
Wilt  thou  be  made  a  man  out  of  my  vice  ? 
Is't  not  a  kind  of  incest  to  take  life 
From  thine  own  sister's  shame  ?     What  should  I  think? 
Heaven  shield,  my  mother  played  my  father  fair ! 
For  such  a  warped  slip  of  wilderness1 

1  Wilderness,  for  wildncss. 


374  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  III. 

Ne'er  issued  from  his  blood.     Take  my  defiance  : 
Die  ;  perish  !     Might  but  my  bending  down 
Reprieve  thee  from  thy  fate,  it  should  proceed : 
I'll  pray  a  thousand  prayers  for  thy  death, 
No  word  to  save  thee. 

Claud.    Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel. 

Isab.  O,  fie,  fie,  fie  ! 

Thy  sin's  not  accidental,  but  a  trade  : 
Mercy  to  thee  would  prove  itself  a  bawd : 
'Tis  best  that  thou  diest  quickly.  [Going. 

Claud.  O  hear  me,  Isabella. 

Re-enter  Duke. 

Duke.  Vouchsafe  a  word,  young  sister,  but  one 
word. 

Isab.    What  is  your  will  ? 

Duke.  Might  you  dispense  with  your  leisure,  I 
would  by  and  by  have  some  speech  with  you :  the 
satisfaction  I  would  require,  is  likewise  your  own 
benefit. 

Isab.  I  have  no  superfluous  leisure  ;  my  stay  must 
be  stolen  out  of  other  affairs ;  but  I  will  attend  you 
a  while. 

Duke.  [To  CLAUDIO,  aside. ~\  Son,  I  have  overheard 
what  hath  passed  between  you  and  your  sister.  An- 
gelo  had  never  the  purpose  to  corrupt  her ;  only  he 
hath  made  an  essay  of  her  virtue,  to  practise  his  judg 
ment  with  the  disposition  of  natures :  she,  having  the 
truth  of  honor  in  her,  hath  made  him  that  gracious  de 
nial  which  he  is  most  glad  to  receive  :  I  am  confessor 
to  Angelo,  and  I  know  this  to  be  true  ;  therefore  pre 
pare  yourself  to  death  :  Do  not  satisfy  your  resolution l 
with  hopes  that  are  fallible  :  to-morrow  you  must  die ; 
go  to  your  knees,  and  make  ready. 

Claud.  Let  me  ask  my  sister  pardon.  I  am  so  out 
of  love  with  life,  that  1  will  sue  to  be  rid  of  it. 


1  Do  not  satisfy  your  resolution,  appears  to  signify,  do  not  quench  or  ex* 
tinguish  your  resolution  with  fallible  hopes. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  375 

Duke,  ^old  you  there  :  Farewell.    [Exit  CLAUDIO. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Provost,  a  word  with  you. 

Prov.   What's  your  will,  father  ? 

Duke.  That  now  you  are  come,  you  will  be  gone  : 
leave  me  awhile  with  the  maid ;  my  mind  promises 
with  my  habit,  no  loss  shall  touch  her  by  my  company. 

Prov.    In  good  time.2  [Exit  Provost. 

Duke.  The  hand  that  hath  made  you  fair,  hath 
made  you  good  :  the  goodness,  that  is  cheap  in  beauty, 
makes  beauty  brief  in  goodness ;  but  grace,  being  the 
soul  of  your  complexion,  should  keep  the  body  of  it 
ever  fair.  The  assault  that  Angelo  hath  made  to  you, 
fortune  hath  conveyed  to  rny  understanding ;  and,  but 
that  frailty  hath  examples  for  his  falling,  I  should  won 
der  at  Angelo.  How  would  you  do  to  contend  this 
substitute,  and  to  save  your  brother  ? 

Isab.  I  am  now  going  to  resolve  him :  I  had  rather 
my  brother  die  by  the  law,  than  my  son  should  be  un 
lawfully  born.  But  O,  how  much  is  the  good  duke 
deceived  in  Angelo !  If  ever  he  return,  and  I  can 
speak  to  him,  I  will  open  my  lips  in  vain,  or  discover 
his  government. 

Duke.  That  shall  not  be  much  amiss :  yet,  as  the 
matter  now  stands,  he  will  avoid  your  accusation ;  he 
made  trial  of  you  only. — Therefore  fasten  your  ear  on 
my  advisings ;  to  the  love  I  have  in  doing  good,  a  rem 
edy  presents  itself.  I  do  make  myself  believe,  that 
you  may  most  uprighteously  do  a  poor  wronged  lady  a 
merited  benefit ;  redeem  your  brother  from  the  angry 
law ;  do  no  stain  to  your  own  gracious  person  ;  and 
much  please  the  absent  duke,  if,  peradventure,  he  shall 
ever  return  to  have  hearing  on  this  business. 

Isab.  Let  me  hear  you  speak  further ;  I  have  spirit 
to  do  any  thing  that  appears  not  foul  in  the  truth  of 
my  spirit. 

Duke.    Virtue  is  bold,  and  goodness  never  fearful. 

1  Hold  you  there  :  continue  in  that  resolution. 

2  i.  e.  a  la  bonne  heure,  so  be  it,  very  well. 


376  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  III. 

Have  you  not  heard  speak  of  Mariana,  the  sister  of 
Frederick,  the  great  soldier,  who  miscarried  at  sea  ? 

Isab.  I  have  heard  of  the  lady,  and  good  words 
went  with  her  name. 

Duke.  Her  should  this  Angelo  have  married ;  was 
affianced  to  her  by  oath,  and  the  nuptial  appointed ; 
between  which  time  of  the  contract,  and  limit l  of  the 
solemnity,  her  brother  Frederick  was  wrrecked  at  sea, 
having  in  that  perished  vessel  the  dowry  of  his  sister. 
But  mark  how  heavily  this  befell  to  the  poor  gentlewo 
man  :  there  she  lost  a  noble  and  renowned  brother,  in 
his  love  toward  her  ever  most  kind  and  natural :  with 
him  the  portion  and  sinew  of  her  fortune,  her  marriage 
dowry ;  with  both,  her  combinate 2  husband,  this  well- 
seeming  Angelo. 

Isab.    Can  this  be  so  ?     Did  Angelo  so  leave  her  ? 

Duke.  Left  her  in  her  tears,  and  dried  not  one  of 
them  with  his  comfort ;  swallowed  his  vows  whole, 
pretending,  in  her,  discoveries  of  dishonor :  in  few, 
bestowed 3  her  on  her  own  lamentation,  which  she  yet 
wears  for  his  sake  ;  and  he,  a  marble  to  her  tears,  is 
washed  with  them,  but  relents  not. 

Isab.  What  a  merit  were  it  in  death,  to  take  this 
poor  maid  from  the  world !  What  corruption  in  this 
life,  that  it  will  let  this  man  live  ! — But  how  out  of  this 
can  she  avail  ? 

Duke.  It  is  a  rupture  that  you  may  easily  heal :  and 
the  cure  of  it  not  only  saves  your  brother,  but  keeps 
you  from  dishonor  in  doing  it. 

Isab,    Show  me  how,  good  father. 

Duke.  This  fore-named  maid  hath  yet  in  her  the 
continuance  of  her  first  affection  ;  his  unjust  unkindness, 
that  in  all  reason  should  have  quenched  her  love,  hath, 
like  an  impediment  in  the  current,  made  it  more  vio 
lent  and  unruly.  Go  you  to  Angelo :  answer  his 
requiring  with  a  plausible  obedience  ;  agree  with  his 
demands  to  the  point :  only  refer 4  yourself  to  this  ad 
vantage, — first,  that  your  stay  with  him  may  not  be 

1  i.  c.  appointed  time.  2  i.  e.  betrothed. 

"*  Gave  her  up  to  her  sorrows.         4  Refer  yourself,  have  recourse  to. 


SC.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  377 

long ;  that  the  time  may  have  all  shadow  and  silence 
in  it ;  and  the  place  answer  to  convenience  :  this  being 
granted  in  course,  now  follows  all.  We  shall  advise 
this  wronged  maid  to  stead  up  your  appointment,  go 
in  your"  place ;  if  the  encounter  acknowledge  itself 
hereafter,  it  may  compel  him  to  her  recompense :  and 
here,  by  this,  is  your  brother  saved,  your  honor  un 
tainted,  the  poor  Mariana  advantaged,  and  the  corrupt 
deputy  scaled.1  The  maid  will  I  frame,  and  make  fit 
for  his  attempt.  If  you  think  well  to  carry  this  as  you 
may,  the  doubleness  of  the  benefit  defends  the  deceit 
from  reproof.  What  think  you  of  it  ? 

Isab.  The  image  of  it  gives  me  content  already  ; 
and,  I  trust,  it  \vill  grow  to  a  most  prosperous  per 
fection. 

Duke.  It  lies  much  in  your  holding  up  :  Haste  you 
speedily  to  Angelo  ;  if  for  this  night  he  entreat  you  to 
his  bed,  give  him  promise  of  satisfaction.  I  will  pres 
ently  to  St.  Luke's ;  there,  at  the  moated  grange,2  re 
sides  this  dejected  Mariana :  at  that  place  call  upon 
me  ;  and  despatch  with  Angelo,  that  it  may  be  quickly. 

Isab.  I  thank  you  for  this  comfort :  fare  you  well, 
good  father.  [Exeunt  severally. 


SCENE  II.     The  Street  before  the  Prison. 

Enter  Duke,  as  a  friar ;  to  him  ELBOW,   Clown,  and 

Officers. 

Elb.  Nay,  if  there  be  no  remedy  for  it,  but  that 
you  will  needs  buy  and  sell  men  and  women  like 
beasts,  we  shall  have  all  the  world  drink  brown  and 
white  bastard.3 

Duke.    O,  Heavens  !     What  stuff  is  here  ? 

Clo.  'Twas  never  merry  world,  since,  of  two  usu 
ries,  the  merriest  was  put  down,  and  the  worser  al- 

1  i.  e.  stripped  of  his  covering  or  disguise. 

2  Grange,  a  solitary  farm-house. 

3  Bastard.     A  sweet  wine,  Raisin  wine,  according  to  Minshew. 
VOL.   I.  48 


378  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  [ACT  III 

lowed,  by  order  of  law,  a  furred  gown  to  keep  him 
warm ;  and  furred  with  fox  and  lamb-skins 1  too,  to 
signify,  that  craft,  being  richer  than  innocency,  stands 
for  the  facing. 

Elb.  Come  your  way,  sir ; — bless  you,  goo"d  father 
friar. 

Duke.  And  you,  good  brother  father  : 2  what  offence 
hath  this  man  made  you,  sir  ? 

Elb.  Marry,  sir,  he  hath  offended  the  law;  and, 
sir,  we  take  him  to  be  a  thief,  too,  sir ;  for  we  have 
found  upon  him,  sir,  a  strange  pick-lock,  which  we 
have  sent  to  the  deputy. 

Duke.    Fie,  sirrah  ;  a  bawd,  a  wicked  bawd  ! 
The  evil  that  thou  causest  to  be  done, 
That  is  thy  means  to  live :  do  thou  but  think 
What  'tis  to  cram  a  maw,  or  clothe  a  back, 
From  such  a  filthy  vice  :  say  to  thyself, — 
From  their  abominable  and  beastly  touches 
I  drink,  I  eat,  array  myself,  and  live. 
Canst  thou  believe  thy  living  is  a  life, 
So  stinkingly  depending?     Go,  mend,  go,  mend. 

Clo.  Indeed,  it  does  stink  in  some  sort,  sir ;  but 
yet,  sir,  I  would  prove 

Duke.    Nay,  if  the  devil  have  given  thee  proofs  for  sin, 
Thou  wilt  prove  his.     Take  him  to  prison,  officer ; 
Correction  and  instruction  must  both  work, 
Ere  this  rude  beast  will  profit. 

Elb.  He  must  before  the  deputy,  sir ;  he  has  given 
him  warning ;  the  deputy  cannot  abide  a  whoremas- 
ter :  if  he  be  a  whoremonger,  and  comes  before  him, 
he  were  as  good  go  a  mile  on  his  errand. 

Duke.  That  we  were  all,  as  some  would  seem  to  be, 
Free  from  our  faults,  as  faults  from  seeming,  free  ! 


1  It  is  probable  we  should  read  "  fox  on  lamb-skins,"  otherwise  craft  will 
not  stand  for  the  facing.     Fox-skins  and  lamb-skins  were  both  used  as 
facings  according  to  the  statute  of  apparel,  24  Hen.  8.  c.  13.     So,  in 
Characterismi,  or  Lenton's  Leasures,  &c.  1631 : — "  An  usurer  is  an  old 
fox  clad  in  lamb-skin." 

2  The  duke  humorously  calls  him  brother  father,  because  he  had  called 
him  father  friar,  which  is  equivalent  to  father  brother,  friar  being  derived 
from/m-e  (Fr.). 


SC.  II.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  379 

Enter  Lucio. 

Elb.    His  neck  will  come  to  your  waist,  a  cord,1  sir. 

Clo.  I  spy  comfort ;  I  cry,  bail :  here's  a  gentle 
man,  and  a  friend  of  mine. 

Lucio.  How  now,  noble  Pompey  ?  What,  at  the 
heels  of  Cresar  ?  Art  thou  led  in  triumph  ?  What,  is 
there  none  of  Pygmalion's  images,  newly-made  wo 
man,2  to  be  had  now,  for  putting  the  hand  in  the 
pocket  and  extracting  it  clutched  ?  What  reply  ? 
Ha  ?  What  say'st  thou  to  this  tune,  matter,  and 
method  ?  Is't  not  drowned  i'  the  last  rain  ?  Ha  ? 
What  say'st  thou,  trot  ?  Is  the  world  as  it  Avas,  man  ? 
Which  is  the  way  ?  Is  it  sad,  and  few  words  ?  Or 
how  ?  The  trick  of  it  ? 

Duke.    Still  thus,  and  thus  !     Still  worse  ! 

Lucio.  How  doth  my  dear  morsel,  thy  mistress  ? 
Procures  she  still  ?  Ha  ? 

Clo.  Troth,  sir,  she  hath  eaten  up  all  her  beef,  and 
she  is  herself  in  the  tub.3 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  good;  it  is  the  right  of  it;  it 
must  be  so — ever  your  fresh  whore,  and  your  pow 
dered  bawd  :  An  unshunned 4  consequence ;  it  must 
be  so :  art  going  to  prison,  Pompey  ? 

Clo.    Yes,  faith,  sir. 

Lucio.  Why,  'tis  not  amiss,  Pompey  :  farewell :  go  ; 
say,  I  sent  thee  thither.  For  debt,  Pompey  ?  Or  how  ? 

Elb.    For  being  a  bawd,  for  being  a  bawd. 

Lucio.  Well,  then,  imprison  him :  if  imprisonment 
be  the  due  of  a  bawd,  why,  'tis  his  right :  bawd  is  he, 
doubtless,  and  of  antiquity  too  ;  bawd-born.  Farewell, 
good  Pompey :  commend  me  to  the  prison,  Pompey ; 
you  will  turn  good  husband  now,  Pompey ;  you  will 
keep  the  house.5 

1  His  neck  will  be  tied,  like  your  waist,  with  a  cord.     The  friar  wore 
a  rope  for  a  girdle. 

2  i.  e.  Have  you  no  new  courtesans  ? 

3  The  method  of  cure  for  a  certain  disease  was  grossly  called  t he  pow- 
dering-tub. 

4  J.  e.  inevitable. 

5  i.  e.  stay  at  home,  alluding  to  the  etymology  of  husband 


380  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  III. 

Clo.    I  hope,  sir,  your  good  worship  will  be  my  bail. 

Lucio.  No,  indeed,  will  I  not,  Pompey ;  it  is  not 
the  wear.1  I  will  pray,  Pompey,  to  increase  your 
bondage  :  if  you  take  it  not  patiently,  why  your  mettle 
is  the  more  :  adieu,  trusty  Pompey. — Bless^you,  friar. 

Duke.    And  you. 

Lucio.    Docs  Bridget  paint  still,  Pompey?  Ha? 

Elb.    Come  your  ways,  sir  ;  come. 

Clo.    You  will  not  bail  me  then,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Then,  Pompey?  Nor  now. — What  news 
abroad,  friar  ?  What  news  ? 

Elb.    Come  your  ways,  sir  ;  come. 

Lucio.    Go, — to  kennel,  Pompey,  go  ; 

[Exeunt  ELBOW,  Clown,  and  Officers. 
What  news,  friar,  of  the  duke  ? 

Duke.    I  know  none  :  Can  you  tell  me  of  any  ? 

Lucio.  Some  say,  he  is  with  the  emperor  of  Rus 
sia;  other  some,  he  is  in  Rome:  but  where  is  he, 
think  you  ? 

Duke.  I  know  not  where  :  but  wheresoever,  I  wish 
him  well. 

Lucio.  It  was  a  mad,  fantastical  trick  of  him,  to 
steal  from  the  state,  and  usurp  the  beggary  he  was 
never  born  to.  Lord  Angelo  dukes  it  well  in  his  ab 
sence  ;  he  puts  transgression  to't. 

Duke.    He  does  well  in't. 

Lucio.  A  little  more  lenity  to  lechery  would  do  no 
harm  in  him  :  something  too  crabbed  that  way,  friar. 

Duke.  It  is  too  general  a  vice,  and  severity  must 
cure  it. 

^  Lucio.  Yes,  in  good  sooth,  the  vice  is  of  a  great 
kindred  ;  it  is  well  allied  :  but  it  is  impossible  to  extirp 
it  quite,  friar,  till  eating  and  drinking  be  put  down. 
They  say,  this  Angelo  was  not  made  by  man  and  wo 
man,  after  the  downright  way  of  creation  :  is  it  true, 
think  you  ? 

Duke.    How  should  he  be  made,  then  ? 

Lucio.  Some  report  a  sea-maid  spawned  him : — 
some  that  he  was  begot  between  two  stock-fishes : — 

1  i.  e  fashion. 


SC.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  381 

but  it  is  certain,  that  when  he  makes  water,  his  urine 
is  congealed  ice  ;  that  I  know  to  be  true  :  and  he  is  a 
motion  1  ungenerative,  that's  infallible. 

Duke.    You  are  pleasant,  sir,  and  speak  apace. 

Lucio.  Why,  what  a  ruthless  thing  is  this  in  him, 
for  the  rebellion  of  a  cod-piece,  to  take  away  the  life 
of  a  man  ?  Would  the  duke,  that  is  absent,  have  done 
this  ?  Ere  he  would  have  hanged  a  man  for  the  get 
ting  a  hundred  bastards,  he  would  have  paid  for  the 
nursing  of  a  thousand :  he  had  some  feeling  of  the 
sport ;  he  knew  the  service,  and  that  instructed  him  to 
mercy. 

Duke.  I  never  heard  the  absent  duke  much  detect 
ed  2  for  women  ;  he  was  not  inclined  that  way. 

Lucio.    O,  sir,  you  are  deceived. 

Duke.    'Tis  not  possible. 

Lucio.  Who  ?  Not  the  duke  ?  Yes,  your  beggar 
of  fifty ; — and  his  use  was,  to  put  a  ducat  in  her  clack- 
dish  : 3  the  duke  had  crotchets  in  him :  he  would  be 
drunk  too ;  and  let  me  inform  you. 

Duke.    You  do  him  wrong,  surely. 

Lucio.  Sir,  I  was  an  inward 4  of  his :  a  shy  fellow 
was  the  duke  :  and,  I  believe,  I  know  the  cause  of  his 
withdrawing. 

Duke.    What,  I  pr'ythee,  might  be  the  cause  ? 

Lucio.  No, — pardon  ; — 'tis  a  secret  must  be  locked 
within  the  teeth  and  the  lips :  but  this  I  can  let  you 
understand, — The  greater  file  5  of  the  subject  held  the 
duke  to  be  wise. 

Duke.    Wise  ?     Why,  no  question  but  he  was. 

Lucio.  A  very  superficial,  ignorant,  unweighing 6 
fellow. 

Duke.  Either  this  is  envy  in  you,  folly,  or  mistaking  ; 
the  very  stream  of  his  life,  and  the  business  he  hath 

•*  i.  e.  a  puppet,  or  moving  body,  without  the  power  of  generation. 

2  Detected  for  suspected. 

3  A  wooden  dish  with  a  movable  cover,  formerly  carried  by  beggars, 
which  they  clacked  and  clattered  to  show  that  it  was  empty. 

4  i.  e.  intimate. 

5  The  majority  of  his  subjects. 

6  i.  e.  inconsiderate. 


382  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  III. 

helmed,1  must,  upon  a  warranted  need,  give  him  a 
better  proclamation.  Let  him  be  but  testimonied  in 
his  own  bringings  forth,  and  he  shall  appear  to  the  en 
vious,  a  scholar,  a  statesman,  and  a  soldier :  therefore, 
you  speak  unskilfully ;  or,  if  your  knowledge  be  more, 
it  is  much  darkened  in  your  malice. 

Lucio.    Sir,  I  know  him,  and  I  love  him. 

Duke.  Love  talks  with  better  knowledge,  and 
knowledge  with  dearer  love. 

Lucio.    Come,  sir,  I  know  what  I  know. 

Duke.  I  can  hardly  believe  that,  since  you  know 
not  what  you  speak.  But,  if  ever  the  duke  return, 
(as  our  prayers  are  he  may,)  let  me  desire  you  to  make 
your  answer  before  him  :  if  it  be  honest  you  have  spoke, 
you  have  courage  to  maintain  it :  I  am  bound  to  call 
upon  you  ;  and,  I  pray  you,  your  name  ? 

Lucio.  Sir,  my  name  is  Lucio ;  well  known  to  the 
duke. 

Duke.  He  shall  know  you  better,  sir,  if  I  may  live 
to  report  you. 

Lucio.    I  fear  you  not. 

Duke.  O,  you  hope  the  duke  will  return  no  more ; 
or  you  imagine  me  too  unhurtful  an  opposite.  But, 
indeed,  I  can  do  you  little  harm ;  you'll  forswear  this 


a<ram. 

o 


Lucio.  I'll  be  hanged  first :  thou  art  deceived  in  me, 
friar.  But  no  more  of  this  ;  canst  thou  tell  if  Cl audio 
die  to-morrow,  or  no  ? 

Duke.    Why  should  he  die,  sir  ? 

Lucio.  Why  ?  For  filling  a  bottle  with  a  tun-dish. 
I  would  the  duke,  we  talk  of,  were  returned  again : 
this  ungenitured  agent  will  unpeople  the  province  with 
continency ;  sparrows  must  not  build  in  his  house- 
eaves,  because  they  arc  lecherous.  The  duke  yet 
would  have  dark  deeds  darkly  answered ;  he  wrould 
never  bring  them  to  light :  would  he  were  returned ! 
Marry,  this  Claudio  is  condemned  for  untrussing.  Fare 
well,  good  friar;  I  pr'ythee,  pray  for  inc.  The  duke. 


1  Guided,  steered  through — a  metaphor  from  navigation. 

I 


SO.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  333 

1  say  to  thee  again,  would  eat  mutton  on  Fridays. 
He's  now  past  it ;  yet,  and  I  say  to  thee,  he  would 
mouth  with  a  heggar,  though  she  smelt1  brown  bread 
and  garlic  :  say,  that  I  said  so.  Farewell.  [Exit. 

Duke.    No  might  nor  greatness  in  mortality 
Can  censure  'scape  :  back-wounding  calumny 
The  whitest  virtue  strikes  :  what  king  so  strong 
Can  tie  the  gall  up  in  the  slanderous  tongue  ? 
But  who  comes  here  ? 


Enter  ESCALUS,  Provost,  Bawd,  and  Officers. 

Escal.    Go,  away  with  her  to  prison. 

Bawd.  Good  my  lord,  be  good  to  me ;  your  honor 
is  accounted  a  merciful  man  :  good  my  lord. 

Escal.  Double  and  treble  admonition,  and  still  for 
feit  in  the  same  kind  ?  This  would  make  mercy  swear, 
and  play  the  tyrant. 

Prov.  A  bawd  of  eleven  years  continuance,  may  it 
please  your  honor. 

Bawd.  My  lord,  this  is  one  Lucio's  information 
against  me :  mistress  Kate  Keep-down  was  with  child 
by  him  in  the  duke's  time  ;  he  promised  her  marriage  ; 
his  child  is  a  year  and  a  quarter  old,  come  Philip  and 
Jacob:  I  have  kept  it  myself;  and  see  how  he  goes 
about  to  abuse  me. 

Escal..  That  fellow  is  a  fellow  of  much  license : — 
let  him  be  called  before  us. — Away  with  her  to  prison  : 
go  to  ;  no  more  words.  [Exeunt  Bawd  and  Officers.] 
Provost,  my  brother  Angelo  will  not  be  altered;  Claudio 
must  die  to-morrow  :  let  him  be  furnished  with  divines, 
and  have  all  charitable  preparation :  if  my  brother 
wrought  by  my  pity,  it  should  not  be  so  with  him. 

Prov.  So  please  you,  this  friar  hath  been  with  him, 
and  advised  him  for  the  entertainment  of  death. 

Escal.    Good  even,  good  father. 

Duke.    Bliss  and  goodness  on  you  ! 

Escal.    Of  whence  are  you  ? 

Duke.    Not  of  this  country,  though  my  chance  is  now 

1  Smelt,  for  smelt  of. 


384  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  III. 

To  use  it  for  my  time  :   I  am  a  brother 
Of  gracious  order,  late  come  from  the  sea, 
In  special  business  from  his  holiness. 

Escal.    What  news  abroad  i'  the  world  ? 

Duke.  None,  but  that  there  is  so  great  a  fever  on 
goodness,  that  the  dissolution  of  it  must  cure  it :  nov 
elty  is  only  in  request ;  and  it  is  as  dangerous  to  be 
aged  in  any  kind  of  course,  as  it  is  virtuous  to  be  con 
stant  in  any  undertaking.  There  is  scarce  truth  enough 
alive  to  make  societies  secure  ;  but  security  enough 
to  make  fellowships  accursed  :  *  much  upon  this  riddle 
runs  the  wisdom  of  the  world.  This  news  is  old 
enough,  yet  it  is  every  day's  news.  I  pray  you,  sir, 
of  what  disposition  was  the  duke  ? 

Escal.  One  that,  above  all  other  strifes,  contended 
especially  to  know  himself. 

Duke.    What  pleasure  was  he  given  to  ? 

Escal.  Rather  rejoicing  to  see  another  merry,  than 
merry  at  any  thing  which  professed  to  make  him  re 
joice  ;  a  gentleman  of  all  temperance.  But  leave  we 
him  to  his  events,  with  a  prayer  they  may  prove  pros 
perous  ;  and  let  me  desire  to  know  how  you  find  Clau- 
dio  prepared.  I  am  made  to  understand,  that  you  have 
lent  him  visitation. 

Duke.  He  professes  to  have  received  no  sinister 
measure  from  his  judge,  but  most  willingly  humbles 
himself  to  the  determination  of  justice  :  yet  had  lie 
framed  to  himself,  by  the  instruction  of  his  frailty, 
many  deceiving  promises  of  life,  which  I,  by  my  good 
leisure,  have  discredited  to  him  ;  and  now  is  he  resolved 
to  die. 

Escal.  You  have  paid  the  heavens  your  function, 
and  the  prisoner  the  very  debt  of  your  calling.  I  have 
labored  for  the  poor  gentleman,  to  the  extremes!  shore 
of  my  modesty ;  but  my  brother  justice  have  I  found 
so  severe,  that  he  hath  forced  me  to  tell  him,  he  is 
indeed — justice.2 

1  The  allusion  is  to  those  legal  securities  into  which  fellowship  leads 
men  to  enter  for  each  other. 

2  Summumjus,  summa  injuria. 


SC.  II  ,  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  3S5 

Duke.  If  his  own  life  answer  the  straitness  of  his 
proceeding,  it  shall  become  him  well ;  wherein,  if  he 
chance  to  fail,  he  hath  sentenced  himself. 

Escal.    I  am  going  to  visit  the  prisoner  :  fare  you  well. 

Duke.    Peace  be  with  you  ! 

[Exeunt  ESCALUS  and  Provost. 
He,  who  the  sword  of  Heaven  will  bear, 
Should  be  as  holy  as  severe ; 
Pattern  in  himself  to  know, 
Grace  to  stand,  and  virtue  go ;  * 
More  nor  less  to  others  paying, 
Than  by  self-offences  weighing. 
Shame  to  him,  whose  cruel  striking 
Kills  for  faults  of  his  own  liking! 
Twice  treble  shame  on  Angelo. 
To  weed  my  vice,  and  let  his  grow ! 
O,  what  may  man  within  him  hide, 
Though  angel  on  the  outward  side ! 
How  may  likeness,  made  in  crimes, 
Mocking,2  practise  on  the  times, 
To  draw  with  idle  spiders'  stings 
Most  ponderous  and  substantial  things ! 
Craft  against  vice  I  must  apply : 
With  Angelo  to-night  shall  lie 
His  old  betrothed,  but  despised ; 
So  disguise  shall,  by  the  disguised, 
Pay  with  falsehood  false  exacting, 
Arid  perform  an  old  contracting.  \_ExiL 

1  This  passage  is  very  obscure,  nor  can  it  be  cleared  without  a  more 
liberal  paraphrase  than  the  reader  may  be  willing  to  allow.     "He  that 
bears  the  sword  of  Heaven  should  be  not  less  holy  than  severe ;  should  be 
able  to  discover  in  himself  a  pattern  of  such  grace  as  can  avoid  tempta 
tion,  and  such  virtue  as  may  go  abroad  into  the  world  without  danger  of 
seduction." 

2  The  old  copies  read  malting.    The  emendation  is  Mr.  Malone's. 

VOL.  i.  49 


386  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  [ACT  IV. 

ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  Mariana's  House. 

MARIANA  discovered  sitting;   a  Boy  singing. 

SONG. 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn : 
But  my  lasses  bring  again, 

bring  again, 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain, 

sealed  in  vain. 

Mari.    Break   off  thy  song,  and  haste   thee  quick 

away ; 

Here  comes  a  man  of  comfort,  whose  advice 
Hath  often  stilled  my  brawling  discontent. — 

[Exit  Boy. 

Enter  Duke. 

I  cry  you  mercy,  sir ;  and  well  could  wish 

You  had  not  found  me  here  so  musical ; 

Let  me  excuse  me,  and  believe  me  so, — 

My  mirth  is  much  displeased,  but  pleased  my  woe. 

Duke.    'Tis    good :    though  music  oft  hath  such  a 

charm, 

To  make  bad  good,  and  good  provoke  to  harm. 
I   pray  you,  tell   me,  hath   any  body  inquired  for  me 
here  to-day?     Much  upon  this  time  have  I  promised 
here  to  meet. 

Mari.    You  have  not  been  inquired  after.     I  have 
sat  here  all  day. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  387 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Duke.  I  do  constantly  believe  you : — The  time  is 
come,  even  now.  I  shall  crave  your  forbearance  a 
little ;  may  be,  I  will  call  upon  you  anon,  for  some 
advantage  to  yourself. 

Man.    I  am  always  bound  to  you.  [Fxit. 

Duke.    Very  well  met,  and  welcome. 
What  is  the  news  from  this  good  deputy  ? 

Isab.    He  hath  a  garden  circummured l  with  brick, 
Whose  western  side  is  with  a  vineyard  backed ; 
And  to  that  vineyard  is  a  planched2  gate, 
That  makes  his  opening  with  this  bigger  key : 
This  other  doth  command  a  little  door, 
Which  from  the  vineyard  to  the  garden  leads ; 
There  have  I  made  my  promise  to  call  on  him, 
Upon  the  heavy  middle  of  the  night. 

Duke.  But  shall  you  on  your  knowledge  find  this  way  ? 

Isab.    I  have  ta'en  a  due  and  wary  note  upon't ; 
With  whispering  and  most  guilty  diligence, 
In  action  all  of  precept,  he  did  show  me 
The  way  twice  o'er. 

Duke.  Are  there  no  other  tokens 

Between  you  'greed,  concerning  her  observance  ? 

Isab.    No,  none,  but  only  a  repair  i'  the  dark ; 
And  that  I  have  possessed  him,  my  most  stay 
Can  be  but  brief;  for  I  have  made  him  know, 
I  have  a  servant  comes  with  me  along, 
That  stays 3  upon  me  ;  whose  persuasion  is, 
I  come  about  my  brother. 

Duke.  'Tis  well  borne  up. 

I  have  not  yet  made  known  to  Mariana 
A  word  of  this  : — What,  ho  !  within !  come  forth  ! 

Re-enter  MARIANA. 

I  pray  you,  be  acquainted  with  this  maid ; 
She  comes  to  do  you  good. 

1  Circummured,  walled  round.  2  Planched,  planked,  wooden 

3  Stays,  waits. 


388  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  IV. 

Isab.  I  do  desire  the  like. 

Duke.    Do  you    persuade   yourself    that  I    respect 

you  ? 
Mari.    Good    friar,    I    know    you    do ;    and    have 

found  it. 

Duke.    Take  then  this  your  companion  by  the  hand, 
Who  hath  a  story  ready  for  your  ear : 
I  shall  attend  your  leisure  ;  but  make  haste  ; 
The  vaporous  night  approaches. 

Mari.  Will't  please  you  walk  aside  ? 

[Exeunt  MARIANA  and  ISABELLA. 
Duke.    O  place  and  greatness,  millions  of  false  eyes 
Are  stuck  upon  thee  !     Volumes  of  report 
Run  with  these  false  and  most  contrarious  quests 
Upon  thy  doings  !     Thousand  'scapes1  of  wit 
Make  thee  the  father  of  their  idle  dream, 
And   rack    thee  in    their  fancies  ! — Welcome  ! — How 
agreed  ? 

Re-enter  MARIANA  and  ISABELLA. 

Isab.    She'll  take  the  enterprise  upon  her,  father, 
If  you  advise  it. 

Duke.  It  is  not  my  consent, 

But  my  entreaty  too. 

Isab.  Little  have  you  to  say, 

When  you  depart  from  him,  but,  soft  and  low, 
Remember  now  my  brother. 

Mari.  Fear  me  not. 

Duke.    Nor,  gentle  daughter,  fear  you  not  at  all : 
He  is  your  husband  on  a  pre-contract : 
To  bring  you  thus  together,  'tis  no  sin ; 
Sith  that  the  justice  of  your  title  to  him 
Doth  flourish 2  the  deceit.     Come,  let  us  go  ; 
Our  corn's  to  reap,  for  yet  our  tilth's3  to  sow. 

[Exeunt. 

1  'Scapes,  sallies,  sportive  wiles. 

2  i.  e.  embellish  an  action  that  would  otherwise  seem  ugly. 

3  Tilth  here  means  land  prepared  for  sowing.     The  old  copy  reads 
tilhe.     The  emendation  is  Warburton's. 


SO.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  389 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  the  Prison. 


Enter  Provost  and  Clown. 

Prov.  Come  hither,  sirrah  :  can  you  cut  off  a  man's 
head  ? 

Clo.  If  the  man  be  a  bachelor,  sir,  I  can :  but  if 
he  be  a  married  man,  he  is  his  wife's  head,  and  I  can 
never  cut  off  a  woman's  head. 

Prov.  Come,  sir,  leave  me  your  snatches,  and  yield 
me  a  direct  answer.  To-morrow  morning  are  to  die 
Claudio  and  Barnardine  :  Here  is  in  our  prison  a  com 
mon  executioner,  who  in  his  office  lacks  a  helper :  if 
you  wrill  take  it  on  you  to  assist  him,  it  shall  redeem 
you  from  your  gyves ;  if  not,  you  shall  have  your  full 
time  of  imprisonment,  and  your  deliverance  with  an 
unpitied  whipping ;  for  you  have  been  a  notorious 
bawd. 

Clo.  Sir,  I  have  been  an  unlawful  bawd,  time  out 
of  mind ;  but  yet  I  will  be  content  to  be  a  lawful 
hangman.  I  would  be  glad  to  receive  some  instruction 
from  my  fellow  partner. 

Prov.  What  ho,  Abhorson !  Where's  Abhorson, 
there  ? 

Enter  ABHORSON. 

Abhor.    Do  you  call,  sir  ? 

Prov.  Sirrah,  here's  a  fellow  will  help  you  to 
morrow  in  your  execution:  If  you  think  it  meet, 
compound  with  him  by  the  year,  and  let  him  abide 
here  with  you ;  if  not,  use  him  for  the  present,  and 
dismiss  him:  he  cannot  plead  his  estimation  with  you  ; 
he  hath  been  a  bawd. 

Abhor.  A  bawd,  sir  ?  Fie  upon  him !  he  will  dis 
credit  our  mystery. 

Prov.  Go  to,  sir ;  you  w7eigh  equally ;  a  feather 
will  turn  the  scale.  [Exit. 

Clo.    Pray,   sir,    by  your  good  favor,    (for,    surely, 


390  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  [ACT  IV 

sir,  a  good  favor l  you  have,  but  that  you  have  a  hang 
ing  look,)  do  you  call,  sir,  your  occupation  a  mystery  ? 

Abhor.    Ay,  sir,  a  mystery. 

Clo.  Painting,  sir,  I  have  heard  say,  is  a  mystery ; 
and  your  whores,  sir,  being  members  of  my  occupa 
tion,  using  painting,  do  prove  my  occupation  a  mys 
tery  :  but  what  mystery  there  should  be  in  hanging,  if 
I  should  be  hanged,  I  cannot  imagine. 

Abhor.    Sir,  it  is  a  mystery. 

Clo.    Proof. 

Ablwr.  Every  true  man's  apparel  fits  your  thief:  if 
it  be  too  little  for  your  thief,  your  true  man  thinks  it 
big  enough ;  if  it  be  too  big  for  your  thief,  your  thief 
thinks  it  little  enough  :  so  every  true  man's  apparel  fits 
your  thief. 

Re-enter  Provost. 

Prov.    Are  you  agreed  ? 

Clo.  Sir,  I  will  serve  him  ;  for  I  do  find,  your  hang 
man  is  a  more  penitent  trade  than  your  bawd  :  he  doth 
oftener  ask  forgiveness. 

Prov.  You,  sirrah,  provide  your  block  and  your  axe, 
to-morrow  four  o'clock. 

Abhor.  Come  on,  bawd ;  I  will  instruct  thee  in  my 
trade ;  follow. 

Clo.  I  do  desire  to  learn,  sir ;  and,  I  hope,  if  you 
have  occasion  to  use  me  for  your  own  turn,  you  shall 
find  me  yare  ; 2  for,  truly,  sir,  for  your  kindness,  I  owe 
you  a  good  turn. 

Prov.    Call  hither  Barnardine  and  Claudio  : 

[Exeunt  Clown  and  ABHORSON. 
One  has  my  pity ;  not  a  jot  the  other, 
Being  a  murderer,  though  he  were  my  brother. 

Enter  CLAUDIO. 

Look,  here's  the  warrant,  Claudio,  for  thy  death ; 
'Tis  now  dead  midnight,  and  by  ei^ht  to-morrow 
Thou  must  be  made  immortal.  W here's  Barnardine  ? 

1  Favor  is  countenance.  ~  i.  e.  ready. 


SC.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  391 

Claud.    As  fast  locked  up  in  sleep,  as  guiltless  labor 
When  it  lies  starkly J  in  the  traveller's  bones  : 
He  will  not  wake. 

Prov.  Who  can  do  good  on  him  ? 

Well,  go,  prepare  yourself.     But  hark,  what  noise  ? 

[Knocking  within. 
Heaven  give  your  spirits  comfort !          [Exit  CLAUDIO. 

By  and  by  : — 

I  hope  it  is  some  pardon,  or  reprieve, 
For  the  most  gentle  Claudio. — Welcome,  father. 

Enter  Duke. 

Duke.    The  best  and  wholesomest  spirits  of  the  night 
Envelop  you,  good  provost !     Who  called  here  of  late  ? 

Prov.    None,  since  the  curfew  rung. 

Duke.  Not  Isabel  ? 

Prov.    No. 

Duke.  They  will  then,  ere't  be  long. 

Prov.    What  comfort  is  for  Claudio  ? 

Duke.  There's  some  in  hope. 

Prov.    It  is  a  bitter  deputy. 

Duke.    Not  so,  not  so ;  his  life  is  paralleled 
Even  with  the  stroke  and  line  of  his  great  justice ; 
He  doth  with  holy  abstinence  subdue 
That  in  himself,  which  he  spurs  on  his  power 
To  qualify  in  others :  were  he  mealed 2 
With  that  which  he  corrects,  then  were  he  tyrannous ; 
But  this  being  so,  he's  just.     Now  are  they  come.— 
[Knocking  within. — Provost  goes  out. 
This  is  a  gentle  provost :  seldom  when 3 
The  steeled  gaoler  is  the  friend  of  men. — 
How  now  ?     What  noise  ?    That  spirit's  possessed  with 

haste, 
That  wounds  the  unsisting 4  postern  with  these  strokes. 

1  i.  e.  stiffly. 

2  Mealed  appears  to  mean  here  sprinkled,  o'erdusted,  defiled. 

3  Some  commentators  prefer  to  make  these  two  words  a  compound  one, 
by  reading  scldom-when. 

4  The  old  copies  read  thus, — SirW.  Blackstone  suggests  that  unsisting 
may  signify,  "  never  at  rest,"  always  opening. — [unresisting  ?] 


392  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  IV. 

Provost  returns,  speaking  to  one  at  the  door. 

Prov.    There  he  must  stay,  until  the  officer 
Arise  to  let  him  in  ;  he  is  called  up. 

Duke.    Have  you  no  countermand  for  Claudio  yet, 
But  he  must  die  to-morrow  ? 

Prov.  None,  sir,  none. 

Duke.    As  near  the  dawning,  provost,  as  it  is, 
You  shall  hear  more  ere  morning- 

O 

Prov.  Happily,1 

You  something  know ;  yet,  I  believe,  there  comes 
No  countermand  ;  no  such  example  have  we  : 
Besides,  upon  the  very  siege  2  of  justice, 
Lord  Angelo  hath  to  the  public  ear 
Professed  the  contrary. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Duke.    This  is  his  lordship's  man. 

Prov.    And  here  comes  Claudio's  pardon. 

Mess.  My  lord  hath  sent  you  this  note  ;  and  by  me 
this  further  charge,  that  you  swerve  not  from  the  small 
est  article  of  it,  neither  in  time,  matter,  or  other  cir 
cumstance.  Good  morrow ;  for,  as  I  take  it,  it  is 
almost  day. 

Prov.    I  shall  obey  him.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Duke.    This  is  his  pardon,  purchased  by  such  sin ; 

[Aside. 

For  which  the  pardoner  himself  is  in : 
Hence  hath  offence  his  quick  celerity, 
When  it  is  borne  in  high  authority : 
When  vice  makes  mercy,  mercy's  so  extended, 
That  for  the  fault's  love,  is  the  offender  friended. — 
Now,  sir,  what  news  ? 

Prov.  I  told  you :  lord  Angelo,  belike,  thinking 
me  remiss  in  mine  office,  awakens  me  with  this  un 
wonted  putting  on  ; 3  methinks,  strangely ;  for  he  hath 
not  used  it  before. 


1  Happily,  haply,  perhaps  the  old  orthography  of  the  word. 

~  i.  e.  seat 

3  Putting  on  is  spur,  incitement. 


SC.  II.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  393 

Duke.    Pray  you,  let's  hear. 

Prov.  [Reads.]  Whatsoever  you  may  hear  to  the  con 
trary,  let  Claudia  be  executed  by  four  of  the  clock ,*  and, 
in  the  afternoon,  B  arnar  dine ;  for  my  better  satisfaction, 
let  me  have  Claudia?  s  head  sent  me  by  jive.  Let  this 
be  duly  performed ;  with  a  thought,  that  more  depends 
on  it  than  we  must  yet  deliver.  Thus  fail  not  to  do 
your  office,  as  you  will  answer  it  at  your  peril. 
What  say  you  to  this,  sir  ? 

Duke.  What  is  that  Barnardine,  who  is  to  be  ex 
ecuted  in  the  afternoon  ? 

Prov.  A  Bohemian  born ;  but  here  nursed  up  and 
bred  ;  one  that  is  a  prisoner  nine  years  old. 

Duke.  How  came  it  that  the  absent  duke  had  not 
either  delivered  him  to  his  liberty,  or  executed  him  ? 
I  have  heard  it  was  ever  his  manner  to  do  so. 

Prov.  His  friends  still  wrought  reprieves  for  him ; 
and,  indeed,  his  fact,  till  now  in  the  government  of 
lord  Angeloj  came  not  to  an  undoubtful  proof. 

Duke.    Is  it  now  apparent  ? 

Prov.    Most  manifest,  and  not  denied  by  himself. 

Duke.  Hath  he  borne  himself  penitently  in  prison  ? 
How  seems  he  to  be  touched  ? 

Prov.  A  man  that  apprehends  death  no  more  dread 
fully,  but  as  a  drunken  sleep ;  careless,  reckless,  and 
fearless  of  what's  past,  present,  or  to  come  ;  insensible 
of  mortality,  and  desperately  mortal. 

Duke.    He  wants  advice. 

Prov.  He  will  hear  none :  he  hath  evermore  had 
the  liberty  of  the  prison ;  give  him  leave  to  escape 
hence,  he  would  not ;  drunk  many  times  a  day,  if  not 
many  days  entirely  drunk.  We  have  very  often  awaked 
him,  as  if  to  carry  him  to  execution,  and  showed  him 
a  seeming  warrant  for  it :  it  hath  not  moved  him  at  all. 

Duke.  More  of  him  anon.  There  is  written  in 
your  brow,  provost,  honesty  and  constancy :  if  I  read 
it  not  truly,  my  ancient  skill  beguiles  me :  but  in  the 
boldness  of  my  cunning,1  I  will  lay  myself  in  hazard. 


1  i.  e.  in  confidence  of  my  sagacity. 
VOL.  i.  50 


394  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  IV. 

Claudio,  whom  here  you  have  a  warrant  to  execute,  is 
no  greater  forfeit  to  the  law  than  Angelo  who  hath 
sentenced  him :  To  make  you  understand  this  in  a 
manifested  effect,  I  crave  but  four  days'  respite  ;  for 
the  which  you  are  to  do  me  both  a  present  and  a  dan 
gerous  courtesy. 

Prov.    Pray,  sir,  in  what  ? 

Duke.    In  the  delaying  death. 

Prov.  Alack !  how  may  1  do  it  ?  having  the  hour 
limited ;  and  an  express  command,  under  penalty, 
to  deliver  his  head  in  the  view  of  Angelo  ?  I  may 
make  my  case  as  Claudio's,  to  cross  this  in  the 
smallest. 

Duke.  By  the  vow  of  mine  order,  I  warrant  you, 
if  my  instructions  may  be  your  guide.  Let  this  Bar- 
nardine  be  this  morning  executed,  and  his  head  borne 
to  Angelo. 

Prov.  Angelo  hath  seen  them  both,  and  will  dis 
cover  the  favor.1 

Duke.  O,  death's  a  great  disguiser :  and  you  may 
add  to  it.  Shave  the  head,  and  tie  the  beard ;  and 
say,  it  was  the  desire  of  the  penitent  to  be  so  bared 
before  his  death :  You  know,  the  course  is  common. 
If  any  thing  fall  to  you  upon  this,  more  than  thanks 
and  good  fortune,  by  the  saint  whom  I  profess,  I  will 
plead  against  it  with  my  life. 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  good  father ;  it  is  against  my 
oath. 

Duke.  Were  you  sworn  to  the  duke,  or  to  the 
deputy  ? 

Prov.    To  him,  and  to  his  substitutes. 

Duke.  You  will  think  you  have  made  no  offence, 
if  the  duke  avouch  the  justice  of  your  dealing  ? 

Prov.    But  what  likelihood  is  in  that  ? 

Duke.    Not  a  resemblance,   but  a  certainty.     Yet 
since  I  see  you  fearful,  that  neither  my  coat,  integrity, 
nor  my  persuasion,  can  with  ease  attempt  you,  I  will 
go  further  than  I  meant,  to  pluck  all  fears  out  of  you 
Look  you,  sir,  here  is  the  hand  and  seal  of  the  duke 

i  Countenance. 


SC.  III.]  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  395 

You  know  the  character,  I  doubt  not ;  and  the  signet 
is  not  strange  to  you. 

Prov.    I  know  them  both. 

Duke.  The  contents  of  this  is  the  return  of  the 
duke  ;  you  shall  anon  overread  it  at  your  pleasure  ; 
where  you  shall  find,  within  these  two  days,  he  will  be 
here.  This  is  a  thing  that  Angelo  knows  not ;  for  he 
this  very  day  receives  letters  of  strange  tenor ;  per 
chance,  of  the  duke's  death ;  perchance,  entering  into 
some  monastery ;  but,  by  chance,  nothing  of  what  is 
writ.1  Look,  the  unfolding  star  calls  up  the  shepherd. 
Put  not  yourself  into  amazement,  how  these  things 
should  be  :  all  difficulties  are  but  easy  wrhen  they  are 
known.  Call  your  executioner,  and  off  with  Barnar- 
dine's  head  :  I  will  give  him  a  present  shrift,  and  advise 
him  for  a  better  place.  Yet  you  are  amazed  ;  but  this 
shall  absolutely  resolve  you.  Come  away  ;  it  is  almost 
clear  dawn.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     Another  Room  in  the  same. 

Enter  Clown. 

Clo.  I  am  as  well  acquainted  here,  as  I  was  in  our 
house  of  profession :  one  wrould  think  it  were  mistress 
Overdone 's  own  house,  for  here  be  many  of  her  old 
customers.  First,  here's  young  master  Rash  ;  he's  in 
for  a  commodity  of  brown  paper  and  old  ginger,  nine- 
score  and  seventeen  pounds ;  of  which  he  made  five 
marks,  ready  money : 2  marry,  then,  ginger  was  not 
much  in  request,  for  the  old  women  were  all  dead. 
Then  is  there  here  one  master  Caper,  at  the  suit  of 
master  Three-pile  the  mercer,  for  some  four  suits  of 
peach-colored  satin,  which  now  peaches  him  a  beggar. 
Then  have  we  here  young  Dizy,  and  young  master 

1  "  What  is  writ"     We  should  read  "  here  writ ; "  the  duke  pointing  to 
the  letter  in  his  hand. 

2  It  was  the  practice  of  money-lenders  in  Shakspeare's  time,  as  well  as 
more  recently,  to  make  advances  partly  in  goods  and  partly  in  cash. 


396  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  IV. 

Deep-vow,  and  master  Copper-spur,  and  master  Starve- 
lackey  the  rapier  and  dagger  man,  and  young  Drop-heir 
that  killed  lusty  Pudding,  and  master  Forthright  the 
tilter,  and  brave  master  Shoe-tie  the  great  traveller, 
and  wild  Half-can  that  stabbed  Pots,  and,  I  think, 
forty  more ;  all  great  doers  in  our  trade,  and  are  now 
for  the  Lord's  sake.1 


Enter  ABHORSON. 

Abhor.    Sirrah,  bring  Barnardine  hither. 

Clo.  Master  Barnardine !  You  must  rise  and  be 
hanged,  master  Barnardine  ! 

Abhor.    What,  ho,  Barnardine  ! 

Barnar.  [Within. ~\  A  pox  o'  your  throats!  Who 
makes  that  noise  there  ?  What  are  you  ? 

Clo.  Your  friends,  sir ;  the  hangman :  you  must  be 
so  good,  sir,  to  rise  and  be  put  to  death. 

Barnar.  [Within.']  Away,  you  rogue,  away;  I  am 
sleepy. 

Abhor.  Tell  him,  he  must  awake,  and  that  quick 
ly  too. 

Clo.  Pray,  master  Barnardine,  awake  till  you  are 
executed,  and  sleep  afterwards. 

Abhor.    Go  in  to  him,  and  fetch  him  out. 

Clo.  He  is  coming,  sir,  he  is  coming ;  I  hear  his 
straw  rustle. 

Enter  BARNARDINE. 

Abhor.    Is  the  axe  upon  the  block,  sirrah  ? 

Clo.    Very  ready,  sir. 

Barnar.  How  now,  Abhorson  ?  What's  the  news 
with  you  ? 

Abhor.  Truly,  sir,  I  would  desire  you  to  clap  into 
your  prayers ;  lor,  look  you,  the  warrant's  come, 


1  It  appears  from  Davies's  Epigrams,  1011,  that  this  was  the  language 
in  which  prisoners  who  were  confined  for  debt  addressed  passengers : — 

"Good  gentle  writers, /o?*  the  Lord's  sake, for  the  Lord's  sake, 
Like  Ludgate  prisoners,  lo,  I,  begging,  make 
My  mone." 


SC.  III.]  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  397 

Barnar.  You  rogue,  I  have  been  drinking  all  night ; 
I  am  not  fitted  for't. 

Clo.  O,  the  better,  sir ;  for  he  that  drinks  all  night, 
and  is  hanged  betimes  in  the  morning,  may  sleep  the 
sounder  all  the  next  day. 

Enter  Duke. 

Abhor.  Look  you,  sir,  here  comes  your  ghostly 
father ;  do  we  jest  now,  think  you  ? 

Duke.  Sir,  induced  by  my  charity,  and  hearing  how 
hastily  you  are  to  depart,  I  am  come  to  advise  you, 
comfort  you,  and  pray  with  you. 

Barnar.  Friar,  not  I ;  I  have  been  drinking  hard  all 
night,  and  I  will  have  more  time  to  prepare  me,  or 
they  shall  beat  out  my  brains  with  billets :  I  will  not 
consent  to  die  this  day,  that's  certain. 

Duke.    O,  sir,  you  must;  and  therefore,  I  beseech 

you, 
Look  forward  on  the  journey  you  shall  go. 

Barnar.  I  swear,  t  will  not  die  to-day  for  any  man's 
persuasion. 

Duke.    But  hear  you. 

Barnar.  Not  a  word  ;  if  you  have  any  thing  to  say 
to  me,  come  to  my  ward ;  for  thence  will  not  I  to-day. 

[Exit. 

Enter  Provost. 

Duke.    Unfit  to  live,  or  die  :  O,  gravel  heart ! — 
After  him,  fellows  ;  bring  him  to  the  block. 

[Exeunt  ABHOR  SON  and  Clown. 

Pro?;.    Now,  sir,  how  do  you  find  the  prisoner  ? 

Duke.    A  creature  unprepared,  unmeet  for  death  ; 
And  to  transport  him  in  the  mind  he  is, 
Were  damnable. 

Prov.  Here  in  the  prison,  father, 

There  died  this  morning  of  a  cruel  fever 
One  Ragozine,  a  most  notorious  pirate, 
A  man  of  Claudio's  years  ;  his  beard  and  head 
Just  of  his  color  :  what  if  we  do  omit 


393  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  IV. 

This  reprobate,  till  he  were  well  inclined, 
And  satisfy  the  deputy  with  the  visage 
Of  Ragozine,  more  like  to  Claudio  ? 

Duke.    O,  'tis  an  accident  that  Heaven  provides ! 
Despatch  it  presently ;  the  hour  draws  on 
Prefixed  by  Angelo.     See  this  be  done, 
And  sent  according  to  command ;  whiles  I 
Persuade  this  rude  wretch  willingly  to  die. 

Prov.    This  shall  be  done,  good  father,  presently. 
But  Barnardine  must  die  this  afternoon : 
And  how  shall  we  continue  Claudio, 
To  save  me  from  the  danger  that  might  come, 
If  he  were  known  alive  ? 

Duke.    Let  this  be  done. — Put  them  in  secret  holds, 
Both  Barnardine  and  Claudio  ;  ere  twice 
The  sun  hath  made  his  journal  greeting  to 
The  under  generation,1  you  shall  find 
Your  safety  manifested. 

Prov.    I  am  your  free  dependant. 

Duke.  Quick,  despatch. 

And  send  the  head  to  Angelo.  [Exit  Provost. 

Now  will  I  write  letters  to  Angelo, — 
The  provost  he  shall  bear  them, — whose  contents 
Shall  witness  to  him  I  am  near  at  home ; 
And  that,  by  great  injunctions,  I  am  bound 
To  enter  publicly  :  him  I'll  desire 
To  meet  me  at  the  consecrated  fount. 
A  league  below  the  city ;  and  from  thence, 
By  cold  gradation  and  weal-balanced  form, 
We  shall  proceed  with  Angelo. 

Re-enter'  Provost, 

Prov.    Here  is  the  head  :  I'll  carry  it  myself. 

Duke.    Convenient  is  it :  make  a  swift  return  ; 
For  I  would  commune  with  you  of  such  things, 
That  want  no  ear  but  yours. 

Prov.  I'll  make  all  speed. 

[Exit. 

1  The  under  generation,  the  antipodes. 


SC.  II1.J  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  399 

Isab.  [Within.']    Peace,  ho,  be  here  ! 

Duke.    The  tongue  of  Isabel ; — she's  come  to  know 
If  jet  her  brother's  pardon  be  come  hither; 
But  I  will  keep  her  ignorant  of  her  good, 
To  make  her  heavenly  comforts  of  despair, 
When  it  is  least  expected. 

Enter  ISABELLA. 

Isab.    Ho,  by  your  leave. 

Duke.    Good    morning   to   you,    fair   and   gracious 
daughter. 

Isab.    The  better  given  me  by  so  holy  a  man. 
Hath  yet  the  deputy  sent  my  brother's  pardon  ? 

Duke.    He  hath  released  him,  Isabel,  from  the  world; 
His  head  is  off,  and  sent  to  Angelo. 

Isab.    Nay,  but  it  is  not  so. 

Duke.  It  is  no  other  : 

Show  your  wisdom,  daughter,  in  your  close  patience. 

Isab.    O,  I  will  to  him,  and  pluck  out  his  eyes. 

Duke.    You  shall  not  be  admitted  to  his  sight. 

Isab.    Unhappy  Claudio  !     Wretched  Isabel ! 
Injurious  world  !     Most  damned  Angelo  ! 

Duke.    This  nor  hurts  him,  nor  profits  you  a  jot : 
Forbear  it  therefore ;  give  your  cause  to  Heaven. 
Mark  what  I  say,  which  you  shall  find 
By  every  syllable  a  faithful  verity : 
The    duke   comes    home  to-morrow; — nay,   dry  your 

eyes : 

One  of  our  convent,  and  his  confessor, 
Gives  me  this  instance  :  already  he  hath  carried 
Notice  to  Escalus  and  Angelo, 
Who  do  prepare  to  meet  him  at  the  gates, 
There  to  give  up  their  power.     If  you  can,  pace  your 

wisdom 

In  that  good  path  that  I  would  wish  to  go ; 
And  you  shall  have  your  bosom l  on  this  wretch, 
Grace  of  the  duke,  revenges  to  your  heart, 
And  general  honor. 

o 

1  Your  bosom  is  your  heart's  desire,  your  wish. 


400  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  IV. 

Isab.  I  am  directed  by  you. 

Duke.    This  letter  then  to  friar  Peter  give  : 
'Tis  that  he  sent  me  of  the  duke's  return : 
Say,  by  this  token,  I  desire  his  company 
At  Mariana's  house  to-night.     Her  cause  and  yours 
I'll  perfect  him  withal ;  and  he  shall  bring  you 
Before  the  duke  ;  and  to  the  head  of  Angelo 
Accuse  him  home,  and  home.     For  my  poor  self, 
I  am  combined l  by  a  sacred  vow, 
And  shall  be  absent.     Wend  you  with  this  letter  ; 
Command  these  fretting  waters  from  your  eyes 
With  a  light  heart ;  trust  not  my  holy  order, 
If  I  pervert  your  course. — Who's  here  ? 


Enter  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Good  even ! 

Friar,  where  is  the  provost  ? 

Duke.  Not  within,  sir. 

Lucio.  O,  pretty  Isabella,  I  am  pale  at  mine  heart 
to  see  thine  eyes  so  red :  thou  must  be  patient :  I  am 
fain  to  dine  and  sup  with  water  and  bran ;  I  dare  not 
for  my  head  fill  my  belly ;  one  fruitful  meal  W7ould  set 
me  to't ;  but  they  say  the  duke  will  be  here  to-morrow. 
By  my  troth,  Isabel,  I  loved  thy  brother :  if  the  old 
fantastical  duke  of  dark  corners  had  been  at  home,  he 
had  lived.  [Exit  ISABELLA. 

Duke.  Sir,  the  duke  is  marvellous  little  beholden  to 
your  reports ;  but  the  best  is,  he  lives  not  in  them.2 

Lucio.  Friar,  thou  knowest  not  the  duke  so  well 
as  I  do :  he's  a  better  woodman 3  than  thou  takest 
him  for. 

Duke.  Well,  you'll  answer  this  one  day.  Fare 
ye  well. 

Lucio.  Nay,  tarry ;  I'll  go  along  with  thee ;  I  can 
tell  thee  pretty  tales  of  the  duke. 

1  Shakspcare  uses  comlinc  for  to  bind  ly  a  pad  or  agreement. 

2  i.  e.  he  depends  not  on  them. 

3  A  woodman  was  an  attendant  on  the  forester ;  his  great  employment 
was  hunting. 


SC.  IV.]  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  401 

Duke.  You  have  told  me  too  many  of  him  already, 
sir,  if  they  be  true ;  if  not  true,  none  were  enough. 

Lucio.  I  was  once  before  him  for  getting  a  wench 
with  child. 

Duke.  Did  you  such  a  thing  ? 

Lucio.  Yes,  marry,  did  I ;  but  was  fain  to  forswear 
it ;  they  would  else  have  married  me  to  the  rotten 
meddler. 

Duke.  Sir,  your  company  is  fairer  than  honest : 
rest  you  well. 

Lucio.  By  my  troth,  I'll  go  with  thee  to  the  lane's 
end  :  if  bawdy  talk  offend  you,  we'll  have  very  little 
of  it :  nay,  friar,  I  am  a  kind  of  burr ;  I  shall  stick. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Angelo's  House. 

Enter  ANGELO  and  ESCALUS. 

Escal.  Every  letter  he  hath  writ  hath  disvouched  ! 
other. 

Aug.  In  most  uneven  and  distracted  manner.  Tis 
actions  show  much  like  to  madness :  pray  Heaven,  his 
wisdom  be  not  tainted !  and  why  meet  him  at  the 
gates,  and  redeliver  our  authorities  there  ? 

Escal.    I  guess  not. 

Ang.  And  why  should  we  proclaim  it  in  an  hour 
before  his  entering,  that,  if  any  crave  redress  of 
injustice,  they  should  exhibit  their  petitions  in  tlio 
street  r3 

Escal.  He  shows  his  reason  for  that :  to  have  a 
despatch  of  complaints ;  and  to  deliver  us  from  de 
vices  hereafter,  which  shall  then  have  no  power  to 
stand  against  us. 

Ang.    Well,   I  beseech   you,  let  it  be  proclaimed: 
Betimes  i'  the  mom,  I'll  call  you  at  your  house : 
Give  notice  to  such  men  of  sort  and  suit,2 
As  are  to  meet  him. 


1  Disvouched  is  contradicts  L  2  Figure  and  rank. 

VOL.   I.  51 


402  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  IV. 

Escul.  I  shall,  sir :  fare  you  well. 

[Exit. 

Ang.    Good  night. — 

This  deed  imshapes  me  quite,  makes  me  unpregnant,1 
And  dull  to  all  proceeding.     A  deflowered  maid! 
And  by  an  eminent  body,  that  enforeed 
The  law  against  it! — But  that  her  tender  shame 
Will  not  proclaim  against  her  maiden  loss, 
How  might  she  tongue  me !     Yet  reason  dares  her  f 

O  a 

— no : 

For  my  authority  bears  a  credent2  bulk, 
That  no  particular  scandal  once  can  touch, 
But  it  confounds  the  breather.     He  should  have  lived, 
Save  that  his  riotous  youth,  with  dangerous  sense, 
Might,  in  the  times  to  come,  have  ta'en  revenge, 
By  so  receiving  a  dishonored  life, 
With  ransom  of  such  shame.     'Would  yet  he  had  lived  ! 
Alack,  when  once  our  grace  we  have  forgot, 
Nothing  goes  right ;  we  wTould  and  we  would  not. 

[Exit.3 

SCENE  V.     Fields  without  the  Town. 

Enter  Duke  in  his  own  habit,  and  Friar  PETER. 

Duke.    These  letters  at  fit  time  deliver  me. 

[Giving  letters. 

The  provost  knows  our  purpose,  and  our  plot. 
The  matter  being  afoot,  keep  your  instruction, 
And  hold  you  ever  to  our  special  drift; 
Though  sometimes  you  do  blench  from  this  to  that, 
As  cause  doth  minister.     Go,  call  at  Flavins'  house, 
And  tell  him  where  I  stay :  give  the  like  notice 
To  Valentinus,  Rowland,  and  to  Crassus, 

i  Unready,  unprepared. 

9  Credent,  creditable,  not  questionable. 

3  J)r.  Johnson  thought  the  fourth  act  should  end  here — "  for  here  is 
properly  a  cessation  of  action ;  a  night  intervenes,  and  the  place  is  changed 
between  the  passages  of  this  scone  and  those  of  the  next.  The  fifth  act, 
beginning  with  the  following  scene,  would  proceed  without  any  interrup 
tion  of  time  or  place." 


SC.  Vi.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  403 

And  bid  them  bring  the  trumpets  to  the  gate ; 
But  send  me  Flavins  first. 

F.  Peter.  It  shall  be  speeded  well. 

[Exit  Friar. 

Enter  VARRIUS. 

Duke.    I  thank  thee,  Varrius  ;   thou  hast  made  good 

haste  : 

Come,  we  will  walk :  there's  other  of  our  friends 
Will  greet  us  here  anon,  my  gentle  Varrius.     [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VI.     Street  near  the  City  Gate. 

Enter  ISABELLA  and  MARIANA. 

Isab.  To  speak  so  indirectly,  I  am  loath  ; 
1  would  say  the  truth ;  but  to  accuse  him  so, 
That  is  your  part :  yet  I'm  advised  to  do  it  ; 
He  says,  to  'vailful  purpose.1 

Mari.  Be  ruled  by  him. 

Isab.    Besides,  he  tells  me,  that,  if  peradventure 
He  speak  against  me  on  the  adverse  side, 
I  should  not  think  it  strange ;  for  'tis  a  physic 
That's  bitter  to  sweet  end. 

Mari.    I  would,  friar  Peter — 

Isab.  O,  peace;  the  friar  is  come. 

Enter  Friar  PETER.S 

F.  Peter.     Come,  I   have   found   you   out  a  stand 

most  fit, 

Where  you  may  have  such  vantage  on  the  duke, 
He  shall  not  pass  you :  twice  have  the  trumpets  sounded; 
The  generous 3  and  the  gravest  citizens 
Have  hent4  the  gates,  and  very  near  upon 
The  duke  is  entering ;  therefore,  hence,  away. 

[Exeunt. 

1  This  is  Mr.  Theobald's  alteration:  the  old  folio  reads  vaUefull  purpose, 

2  He  is  called  friar  Thomas  in  the  first  Act. 

3  Generous,  for  noble.  4  j.  e.  seized,  laid  hold  on. 


404  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  V 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     A  public  Place  near  the  City  Gate. 

MARIANA  (veiled),  ISABELLA,  and  PETER,  at  a  dis 
tance.  Enter,  at  opposite  doors,  Duke,  VARRIUS, 
Lords  ;  ANGELO,  ESCALUS,  Lucio,  Provost,  Officers, 
and  Citizens. 

Duke.    My  very  worthy  cousin,  fairly  met : — 
Our  old  and  faithful  friend,  we  are  glad  to  see  you. 

Aug.    and  Escal.    Happy  return  be  to   your  royal 
grace ! 

Duke.    Many  and  hearty  thankings  to  you  both. 
We  have  made  inquiry  of  you ;  and  we  hear 
Such  goodness  of  your  justice,  that  our  soul 
Cannot  but  yield  you  forth  to  public  thanks, 
Forerunning  more  requital. 

Aug.  You  make  my  bonds  still  greater. 

Duke.    O,  your  desert  speaks  loud ;  and  I  should 

wrong  it, 

To  lock  it  in  the  wards  of  covert  bosom, 
When  it  deserves  with  characters  of  brass 
A  foiled  residence,  'gainst  the  tooth  of  time, 
And  razure  of  oblivion :  give  me  your  hand, 
And  let  the  subject  see,  to  make  them  know 
That  outward  courtesies  would  fain  proclaim 
Favors  that  keep  within. — Come,  Escalus  ; 
You  must  walk  by  us  on  our  other  hand ; — 
And  good  supporters  are  you. 

PETER  and  ISABELLA  come  forward. 

F.  Peter.  Now  is  your  time ;  speak  loud,  and  kneel 

before  him. 
Isab.    Justice,  O  royal  duke!     Vail1  your  regard, 

1  To  vail  is  to  lower,  to  Ittfall,  to  cast  down. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  405 

Upon  a  wronged,  I'd  fain  have  said,  a  maid ! 
O  worthy  prince,  dishonor  not  your  eye 
By  throwing  it  on  any  other  object, 
Till  you  have  heard  me  in  my  true  complaint, 
And  given  me,  justice,  justice,  justice,  justice  ! 

Duke.    Relate  your  wrongs  :  In  what  ?     By  whom  ? 

Be  brief: 

Here  is  lord  Angelo  shall  give  you  justice ! 
Reveal  yourself  to  him. 

Isab.  O,  worthy  duke, 

You  bid  me  seek  redemption  of  the  devil : 
Hear  me  yourself;  for  that  which  I  must  speak 
Must  either  punish  me,  not  being  believed, 
Or  wring  redress  from  you  ;  hear  me,  O,  hear  me,  here. 

Ang.    My  lord,  her  wits,  I  fear  me,  are  not  firm : 
She  hath  been  a  suitor  to  me  for  her  brother, 
Cut  off  by  course  of  justice. 

Isab.  By  course  of  justice  ! 

Ang.    And  she  wrill  speak  most  bitterly  and  strange. 

Isab.    Most  strange,  but  yet  most  truly,  will  I  speak  : 
That  Angelo's  forsworn,  is  it  not  strange  ? 
That  Angelo's  a  murderer,  is't  not  strange  ? 
That  Angelo  is  an  adulterous  thief, 
An  hypocrite,  a  virgin-violator, 
Is  it  not  strange,  and  strange  ? 

Duke.  Nay,  ten  times  strange. 

Isab.    It  is  not  truer  he  is  Angelo, 
Than  this  is  all  as  true  as  it  is  strange  : 
Nay,  it  is  ten  times  true  ;  for  truth  is  truth 
To  the  end  of  reckoning. 

o 

Duke.  Away  with  her  : — poor  soul. 

She  speaks  this  in  the  infirmity  of  sense. 

Isab.    O  prince,  I  conjure  thee,  as  thou  belie  vest 
There  is  another  comfort  than  this  world, 
That  thou  neglect  me  not,  with  that  opinion 
That  I  am  touched  with  madness  :  make  not  impossible 
That  which  but  seems  unlike  :  'tis  not  impossible 
But  one,  the  wicked'st  caitiff  on  the  ground, 
May  seem  as  shy,  as  grave,  as  just,  as  absolute, 
As  Angelo ;  even  so  may  Angelo, 


406  MEASURE   FOR  MEASURE.  [ACT  \ 

In  all  his  dressings,  characts,1  titles,  forms, 
Be  an  arch  villain :  believe  it,  royal  prince, 
If  he  be  less,  he's  nothing ;  but  he's  more, 
Had  I  more  name  for  badness. 

Duke.  By  mine  honesty, 

If  she  be  mad,  (as  I  believe  no  other,) 
Her  madness  hath  the  oddest  frame  of  sense, 
Such  a  dependency  of  thing  on  thing, 
As  e'er  I  heard  in  madness. 

Isab.  O,  gracious  duke, 

Harp  not  on  that ;  nor  do  not  banish  reason 
For  inequality  :  but  let  your  reason  serve 
To  make  the  truth  appear,  where  it  seems  hid, 
And  hide  the  false,  seems  true.'-2 

Duke.  Many  that  are  not  mad, 

Have,  sure,  more  lack  of  reason. — What  would  you 
say  ? 

[sab.    I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 
Condemned  upon  the  act  of  fornication 
To  lose  his  head  ;  condemned  by  Angelo  : 
I,  in  probation  of  a  sisterhood, 
Was  sent  to  by  my  brother :  one  Lucio 
As  then  the  messenger  ; — 

Lucio.  That's  I,  an't  like  your  grace  : 

I  came  to  her  from  Claudio,  and  desired  her 
To  try  her  gracious  fortune  with  lord  Arigelo, 
For  her  poor  brother's  pardon. 

Isab.  That's  he,  indeed. 

Duke.    You  were  not  bid  to  speak. 

Lucio.  No,  my  good  lord  : 

Nor  wished  to  hold  my  peace. 

Duke.  I  wish  you  now,  then ; 

Pray  you,  take  note  of  it :  and  when  you  have 
A  business  for  yourself,  pray  Heaven  you  then 
Be  perfect. 

Lucio.    I  warrant  your  honor. 

Duke.    The  warrant's  for  yourself;  take  heed  to  it. 


1  Characts  are  distinctive  marks  or  characters. 

2  Mr.  Phelps  proposes  to  read  "  And  hid,  the  false  seems  true." 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  407 

Isab.    This  gentleman  told  somewhat  of  my  tale. 

Lucio.   Right. 

Duke.    It  may  be  right ;  but  you  are  in  the  wrong 
To  speak  before  your  time. — Proceed. 

Isab.  I  went 

To  this  pernicious  caitiff  deputy. 

Duke.    That's  somewhat  madly  spoken. 

Isab.  Pardon  it. 

The  phrase  is  to  the  matter. 

Duke.    Mended  again :  the  matter ; — proceed. 

Isab.    In  brief, — to  set  the  needless  process  by, 
How  I  persuaded,  how  I  prayed,  and  kneeled, 
How  he  refelled 1  me,  and  how  I  replied, 

!For  this  was  of  much  length,)  the  vile  conclusion 
now  begin  with  grief  and  shame  to  utter ; 
He  would  not,  but  by  gift  of  my  chaste  body 
To  his  concupiscible,  intemperate  lust, 
Release  my  brother ;  and,  after  much  debatement, 
My  sisterly  remorse 2  confutes  mine  honor, 
And  I  did  yield  to  him.     But  the  next  mom  betimes, 
His  purpose  surfeiting,  he  sends  a  warrant 
For  my  poor  brother's  head. 

Duke.  This  is  most  likely ! 

Isab.    O,  that  it  were  as  like  as  it  is  true  ! 

Duke.   By  Heaven,  fond  wretch,  thou  know'st  not 

what  thou  speak'st ; 

Or  else  thou  art  suborned  against  his  honor, 
In  hateful  practice.     First,  his  integrity 
Stands  without  blemish : — next,  it  imports  no  reason 
That  with  such  vehemency  he  should  pursue 
Faults  proper  to  himself:  if  he  had  so  offended, 
He  would  have  weighed  thy  brother  by  himself, 
And  not  have  cut  him  off:  some  one  hath  set  you  on ; 
Confess  the  truth,  and  say  by  whose  advice 
Thou  cam'st  here  to  complain. 

Isab.  And  is  this  all  ? 

Then,  oh,  you  blessed  ministers  above, 
Keep  me  in  patience ;  and,  with  ripened  time, 

1  Refelled  is  refuted.  2  Remorse  is  pity. 


403  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  V. 

Unfold  the  evil  which  is  here  wrapped  up 

In  countenance  ! l — Heaven  shield  your  grace  from  \voe, 

As  I,  thus  wronged,  hence  unbelieved  go ! 

Duke.    I  know,  you'd  fain  be  gone. — An  officer  i 
To  prison  with  her : — shall  we  thus  permit 
A  blasting  and  a  scandalous  breath  to  fall 
On  him  so  near  us  ?     This  needs  must  be  a  practice.2 
— Who  knew  of  your  intent,  and  coming  hither  ? 

Isab.    One  that  I  would  were  here,  friar  Lodowick. 

Duke.    A    ghostly  father,  belike :  who  knows  that 
Lodowick  ? 

Lucio.    My  lord,  I  know  him  ;  'tis  a  meddling  friar ; 
I  do  not  like  the  man :  had  he  been  lay,  my  lord. 
For  certain  words  he  spake  against  your  grace 
In  your  retirement,  I  had  swinged  him  soundly. 

Duke.    Words  against  me  ?  this  a  good  friar  belike  ! 
And  to  set  on  this  wretched  woman  here 
Against  our  substitute  ! — Let  this  friar  be  found. 

Lucio.    But  yesternight,  my  lord,  she  and  that  friar, 
I  saw  them  at  the  prison  ;  a  saucy  friar, 
A  very  scurvy  fellow. 

F.  Peter.  Blessed  be  your  royal  grace ! 

I  have  stood  by,  my  lord,  and  I  have  heard 
Your  royal  ear  abused :  first,  hath  this  woman 
Most  wrongfully  accused  your  substitute  ; 
Who  is  as  free  from  touch  or  soil  with  her, 
As  she  from  one  ungot. 

Duke.  We  did  believe  no  less. 

Know  you  that  friar  Lodowick  that  she  speaks  of! 

F.  Peter.    I  know  him  for  a  man  divine  and  holy  ; 
Not  scurvy,  nor  a  temporary  meddler, 
As  he's  reported  by  this  gentleman ; 
And,  on  my  trust,  a  man  that  never  yet 
Did,  as  he  vouches,  misreport  your  grace. 

Lucio.   My  lord,  most  villanously  ;  believe  it. 

F.  Peter.    Well,    he    in    time    may   come    to   clear 

himself; 
But  at  this  instant  he  is  sick,  my  lord, 

1  i.  e.  false  appearance.  ~  i.  c.  insidious  stratagem. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  409 

Of  a  strange  fever :  upon  his  mere  l  request 
(Being  come  to  knowledge  that  there  was  complaint 
Intended  'gainst  lord  Angclo)  came  I  hither, 
To  speak  as  from  his  mouth,  what  he  doth  know 
Is  true,  and  false  ;  and  what  he  with  his  oath, 
And  all  probation,  will  make  up  full  clear, 
Whensoever  he's  convented.2     First,  for  this  woman, 
(To  justify  this  worthy  nobleman, 
So  vulgarly 3  and  personally  accused,) 
Her  shall  you  hear  disproved  to  her  eyes, 
Till  she  herself  confess  it. 

Duke.  Good  friar,  let's  hear  it. 

[ISABELLA  is  carried  off,  guarded ;  and 

MARIANA  comes  forward. 
Do  you  not  smile  at  this,  lord  Angelo  ? — 
O  Heaven  !     The  vanity  of  wretched  fools ! — 
Give  us  some  seats. — Come,  cousin  Angelo ; 
In  this  I'll  be  impartial ;  be  you  judge 
Of  your  own  cause. — Is  this  the  witness,  friar  ? 
First,  let  her  show  her  face  ;  and,  after,  speak. 

Mari.    Pardon,  my  lord ;  I  will  not  show  my  face 
Until  my  husband  bid  me. 

Duke.    What,  are  you  married  ? 

Mari.    No,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Are  you  a  maid  ? 

Mari.  No,  my  lord. 

Duke.    A  widow  then  ? 

Mari.  Neither,  my  lord. 

Duke.  Why,  you 

Are  nothing  then  : — neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife  ? 

Lucio.    My  lord,  she  may  be  a  punk ;  for  many  of 
them  are  neither  maid,  widow,  nor  wife. 

Duke.    Silence  that  fellow ;  I  would  he  had  some 

cause 
To  prattle  for  himself. 

Lucio.   Well,  my  lord. 

Mari.    My  lord,  I  do  confess  I  ne'er  was  married ; 
And  I  confess,  besides,  I  am  no  maid : 

1  Mere  here  means  absolute. 

2  Convented,  cited,  summoned.  3  i.  e.  publicly 

VOL.  i.  52 


410  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  V, 

I  have  known  my  husband  ;  yet  my  husband  knows  not, 
That  ever  he  knew  me. 

Lucio.    He  was  drunk  then,  my  lord ;  it  can  be  no 
better. 

Duke.    For  the  benefit  of  silence,  'would  thou  wert 
so  too. 

Lucio.    Well,  my  lord. 

Duke.    This  is  no  witness  for  lord  Angelo. 

Marl.    Now  I  come  to't,  my  lord : 
She,  that  accuses  him  of  fornication, 
In  self-same  manner  doth  accuse  my  husband , 
And  charges  him,  my  lord,  with  such  a  time, 
When  I'll  depose  I  had  him  in  mine  arms, 
With  all  the  effect  of  love. 

Aug.  Charges  she  more  than  me  ? 

Mari.    Not  that  I  know. 

Duke.  No  ?  you  say,  your  husband 

Mari.    Why,  just,  my  lord,  and  that  is  Angelo, 
Who  thinks,  he  knows,  that  he  ne'er  knew  my  body, 
But  knows,  he  thinks,  that  he  knew  Isabel's. 

Ang.    This  is  a  strange  abuse  : 1 — let's  see  thy  face. 

Mari.    My  husband  bids  me  ;  now  I  will  unmask. 

[  Unveiling. 

This  is  that  face,  thou  cruel  Angelo, 
Which,  once  thou  swor'st,  was  worth  the  looking  on  : 
This  is  the  hand,  which,  with  a  vowed  contract, 
Was  fast  belocked  in  thine :  this  is  the  body 
That  took  away  the  match  from  Isabel, 
And  did  supply  thee  at  thy  garden-house,2 
In  her  imagined  person. 

Duke.  Know  you  this  woman  ? 

Lucio.    Carnally,  she  says. 

Duke.  Sirrah,  no  more. 

Lucio.    Enough,  my  lord. 

Ang.    My  lord,  I  must  confess,  I  know  this  woman : 
<\nd,  five  years  since,  there  was  some  speech  of  marriage 

1  Abuse  stands  in  this  place  for  deception  or  puzzle. 

-  Garden-houses  were  formerly  much  in  fashion.  They  were  chiefly 
such  buildings  as  we  should  now  call  summer-houses,  standing  in  a  walled 
or  inclosed  garden  in  the  suburbs  of  London. 


SC.  I.]  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  411 

Betwixt  myself  and  her ;  which  was  broke  off, 

Partly,  for  that  her  promised  prdportions 

Came  short  of  composition  ; 1  but,  in  chief, 

For  that  her  reputation  was  disvalued 

In  levity ;  since  which  time  of  five  years, 

I  never  spake  with  her,  saw  her,  nor  heard  from  her, 

Upon  my  faith  and  honor. 

Mari.  Noble  prince, 

As  there   comes  light   from  heaven,  and  words  from 

breath, 

As  there  is  sense  in  truth,  and  truth  in  virtue, 
I  am  affianced  this  man's  wife,  as  strongly 
As  words  could  make  up  vows ;  and,  my  good  lord, 
But  Tuesday  night  last  gone,  in  his  garden-house, 
He  knew  me  as  a  wife.     As  this  is  true, 
Let  me  in  safety  raise  me  from  my  knees ; 
Or  else  forever  be  confixed  here, 
A  marble  monument ! 

Ang.  I  did  but  smile  till  now ; 

Now,  good  my  lord,  give  me  the  scope  of  justice ; 
My  patience  here  is  touched :  I  do  perceive, 
These  poor  informal 2  women  are  no  more 
But  instruments  of  some  more  mightier  member, 
That  sets  them  on :  let  me  have  way,  my  lord, 
To  find  this  practice  out. 

Duke.  Ay,  with  my  heart ; 

And  punish  them  unto  your  height  of  pleasure. — 
Thou  foolish  friar,  and  thou  pernicious  woman, 
Compact  with  her  that's   gone !     Think'st  thou  thy 

oaths, 

Though  they  would  swear  down  each  particular  saint, 
Were  testimonies  against  his  worth  and  credit, 
That's  sealed  in  approbation  ? — You,  lord  Escalus, 
Sit  with  my  cousin :  lend  him  your  kind  pains 
To  find  out  this  abuse,  whence  'tis  derived. — 


1  Her  fortune,  which  was  promised  proportionate  to  mine,  fell  short  of 
the  composition,  i.  e.  contract  or  bargain. 

~  Informal  signifies  out  of  their  senses.     So  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors, 
Act  v.  Sc.  1. 

"  To  make  of  him  a  formal  man  again  " 


412  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  V. 

There  is  another  friar  that  set  them  on ; 
Let  him  be  sent  for. 

jP.  Peter.   Would  he  were  here,  my  lord ;    for  he, 

indeed, 

Hath  set  the  women  on  to  this  complaint : 
Your  provost  knows  the  place  where  he  abides, 
And  he  may  fetch  him. 

Duke.    Go,  do  it  instantly. —  [Exit  Provost. 

And  you,  my  noble  and  well-warranted  cousin, 
Whom  it  concerns  to  hear  this  matter  forth,1 
Do  with  your  injuries  as  seems  you  best, 
In  any  chastisement :  I  for  a  while 
Will  leave  you ;  but  stir  not  you,  till  you  have  well 
Determined  upon  these  slanderers. 

Escal.  My  lord,  we'll  do  it  thoroughly. — [Exit 
Duke.]  Seignior  Lucio,  did  you  not  say,  you  knew 
that  friar  Lodowick  to  be  a  dishonest  person  ? 

Lucio.  Cucullus  non  facit  monachum :  honest  in 
nothing,  but  in  his  clothes ;  and  one  that  hath  spoke 
most  villanous  speeches  of  the  duke. 

Escal.  We  shall  entreat  you  to  abide  here  till  he 
come,  and  enforce  them  against  him :  we  shall  find 
this  friar  a  notable  fellow. 

Lucio.    As  any  in  Vienna,  on  my  word. 

Escal.  Call  that  same  Isabel  here  once  again , 
[To  an  Attendant.']  I  would  speak  with  her;  pray 
you,  my  lord,  give  me  leave  to  question ;  you  shall  see 
howr  I'll  handle  her. 

Lucio.   Not  better  than  he,  by  her  own  report. 

Escal.    Say  you  ? 

Lucio.  Marry,  sir,  I  think,  if  you  handled  her  pri 
vately,  she  would  sooner  confess ;  perchance,  publicly, 
she'll  be  ashamed. 

Re-enter  Officers,  with  ISABELLA,   the   Duke,  in   the 
friars  habit,  and  Provost. 

Escal.    I  will  go  darkly  to  work  with  her. 
Lucio.    That's  the  way,   for   women   are   light   at 
midnight. 

1  i.  e.  out,  to  the  end. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  413 

Escal.    Come  on,  mistress;  [To  ISABELLA.]  Here's 
a  gentlewoman  denies  all  that  you  have  said. 

Lucio.    My  lord,  here  comes  the  rascal  I  spoke  of; 
here  with  the  provost. 

Escal.    In  very  good  time  : — speak  not  you  to  him, 
till  we  call  upon  you. 

Lucio.   Mum. 

Escal.    Come,  sir :  did  you  set  these  women  on  to 
slander  lord  Angelo  ?     They  have  confessed  you  did. 

Duke.    'Tis  false. 

Escal.    How !  know  you  where  you  are  ? 

Duke.    Respect   to  your  great  place !    and  let  the 

devil 

Be  sometimes  honored  for  his  burning  throne  : — 
Where  is  the  duke  ?     'Tis  he  should  hear  me  speak. 

Escal.    The  duke's  in  us ;    and  he  will  hear  you 

speak ; 
Look,  you  speak  justly. 

Duke.   Boldly,  at  least :— but,  O,  poor  souls, 
Come  you  to  seek  the  lamb  here  of  the  fox  ? 
Good  night  to  your  redress.     Is  the  duke  gone  ? 
Then  is  your  cause  gone  too.     The  duke's  unjust, 
Thus  to  retort x  your  manifest  appeal, 
And  put  your  trial  in  the  villain's  mouth, 
Which  here  you  come  to  accuse. 

Lucio.    This  is  the  rascal :  this  is  he  1  spoke  of. 

Escal.    Why,  thou  unreverend  and  unhallowed  friar ! 
Is't  not  enough,  thou  hast  suborned  these  women 
To  accuse  this  worthy  man ;  but,  in  foul  mouth, 
And  in  the  witness  of  his  proper  ear, 
To  call  him  villain  ? 

And  then  to  glance  from  him  to  the  duke  himself; 
To  tax  him  with  injustice  ? — Take  him  hence  ; 
To  the  rack  with  him  : — we'll  touze  you  joint  by  joint, 
But  we  will  know  this  purpose  : — what !  unjust  ? 

Duke.   Be  not  so  hot ;  the  duke 
Dare  no  more  stretch  this  finger  of  mine,  than  he 
Dare  rack  his  own ;  his  subject  am  I  not, 

1  To  retort  is  to  refer  back. 


414  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  V 

Nor  here  provincial : l  My  business  in  this  state 

Made  me  a  looker-on  here  in  Vienna, 

Where  I  have  seen  corruption  boil  and  bubble, 

Till  it  o'errun  the  stew ;  laws,  for  all  faults ; 

But  faults  so  countenanced,  that  the  strong  statutes 

Stand  like  the  forfeits  in  a  barber's  shop, 

As  much  in  mock  as  mark.2 

EscaL    Slander  to  the   state !     Away  with  him  to 
prison. 

Aug.    What  can  you  vouch   against  him,   seignior 

Lucio  ? 
Is  this  the  man  that  you  did  tell  us  of? 

Lucio.  'Tis  he,  my  lord.  Come  hither,  goodman 
bald-pate  :  do  you  know  me  ? 

Duke.  I  remember  you,  sir,  by  the  sound  of  your 
voice :  I  met  you  at  the  prison  in  the  absence  of 
the  duke. 

Lucio.  O,  did  you  so  ?  And  do  you  remember 
what  you  said  of  the  duke  ? 

Duke.    Most  notedly,  sir. 

Lucio.  Do  you  so,  sir  ?  And  was  the  duke  a  flesh- 
monger,  a  fool,  and  a  coward,  as  you  then  reported 
him  to  be  ? 

Duke.  You  must,  sir,  change  persons  with  me,  ere 
you  make  that  my  report :  you,  indeed,  spoke  so  of 
him  ;  and  much  more,  much  worse. 

Lucio.  O  thou  damnable  fellow !  Did  not  I  pluck 
thee  by  the  nose,  for  thy  speeches  ? 

Duke.    I  protest,  I  love  the  duke,  as  I  love  myself. 

Aug.  Hark !  how  the  villain  would  close  now, 
after  his  treasonable  abuses. 


1  Provincial  is  pertaining  to  a  province ;  most  usually  taken  for  the  cir 
cuit  of  an  ecclesiastical  jurisdiction.     The  chief  or  head  of  any  religious 
order  in  such  a  province  was  called  the  provincial,  to  Avhom  alone  the 
members  of  that  order  were  accountable. 

2  Barbers'  shops  were  anciently  places  of  great  resort  for  passing  away 
time  in  an  idle  manner.     By  way  of  enforcing  some  kind  of  regularity, 
and  perhaps  at  least  as  much  to  promote  drinking,  certain  laws  were  usu 
ally  hung  up,  the  transgression  of  which  was  to  be  punished  by  specific 
forfeits ;  which  were  as  mu>'h  in  mock  as  mark,  because  the  barber  had 
no  authority  of  himself  to  enforce  them,  and  also  because  they  were  of  a 
ludicrous  nature. 


SC.  I.]  MEASURE    FOR  MEASURE.  415 

Escal.  Such  a  fellow  is  not  to  be  talked  withal : — 
away  with  him  to  prison  : — Where  is  the  provost  ? — 
Away  with  him  to  prison ;  lay  bolts  enough  upon  him  : 
— Let  him  speak  no  more  : — Away  with  those  giglots1 
too,  and  with  the  other  confederate  companion. 

[The  Provost  lays  hands  on  the  Duke. 

Duke.    Stay,  sir ;  stay  a  while. 

Aug.    What !  resists  he  ?     Help  him,  Lucio. 

Lucio.  Come,  sir ;  come,  sir ;  come,  sir ;  foh,  sir , 
why,  you  bald-pated,  lying  rascal !  You  must  be 
hooded,  must  you  ?  Show  your  knave's  visage,  with 
a  pox  to  you !  Show  your  sheep-biting  face,  and  be 
hanged  an  hour !  Wilt  not  off? 

[Pulls  off  the  Friar's  hood,  and  discovers  the  Duke. 

Duke.    Thou  art  the  first  knave  that  e'er  made  a 

duke. 

First,  provost,  let  me  bail  these  gentle  three : 

Sneak  not  away,  sir ;   [To  Lucio.]  for  the  friar  and  you 
Must  have  a  word  anon : — -lay  hold  on  him. 

Lucio.    This  may  prove  worse  than  hanging. 

Duke.    What  you  have  spoke,   I   pardon ;    sit  you 

down. [To  ESCALUS. 

We'll  borrow  place  of  him  : — sir,  by  your  leave  : 

[To  ANGELO. 

Hast  thou  or  word,  or  wit,  or  impudence, 
That  yet  can  do  thee  office  ?     If  thou  hast, 
Rely  upon  it  till  my  tale  be  heard, 
And  hold  no  longer  out. 

Ang.  O  my  dread  lord, 

I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  guiltiness, 
To  think  I  can  be  undiscernible, 
When  I  perceive,  your  grace,  like  power  divine, 
Hath  looked  upon  my  passes  : 2  Then,  good  prince, 
No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  shame, 
But  let  my  trial  be  mine  own  confession  ; 
Immediate  sentence  then,  and  sequent  death, 
Is  all  the  grace  I  beg. 

1  Giglots  are  wantons. 

2  Passes,  probably  put  for  trespasses ;  or  it  may  mean  courses   from 
passes  (Fr.). 


416  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.        [ACT  V. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Mariana  ; — 

Say,  wast  thou  e'er  contracted  to  this  woman  ? 

Ang.    I  was,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Go  take  her  hence,  and  marry  her  instantly. — 
Do  you  the  office,  friar ;  which  consummate, 
Return  him  here  again : — go  with  him,  provost. 

[Exeunt  ANGELO,  MARIANA,  PETER,  and  Provost. 

Escal.    My  lord,  I  am  more  amazed  at  his  dishonor, 
Than  at  the  strangeness  of  it. 

Duke.  Come  hither,  Isabel : 

Your  friar  is  now  your  prince :  as  I  was  then 
Advertising,  and  holy1  to  your  business. 
Not  changing  heart  with  habit,  I  am  still 
Attorney ed  at  your  service. 

Isab.  O,  give  me  pardon, 

That  I,  your  vassal,  have  employed  and  pained 
Your  unknown  sovereignty. 

Duke.  You  are  pardoned,  Isabel : 

And  now,  dear  maid,  be  vou  as  free  to  us. 
Your  brother's  death,  I  know,  sits  at  your  heart ; 
And  you  may  marvel  why  I  obscured  myself, 
Laboring  to  safe  his  life ;  and  would  not  rather 
Make  rash  remonstrance 2  of  my  hidden  power, 
Than  let  him  so  be  lost :  O,  most  kind  maid, 
It  was  the  swift  celerity  of  his  death, 
Which  I  did  think  with  slower  foot  came  on, 
That  brained  my  purpose :  but  peace  be  with  him ! 
That  life  is  better  life,  past  fearing  death, 
Than  that  which  lives  to  fear :  make  it  your  comfort, 
So  happy  is  your  brother. 

Re-enter  ANGELO,  MARIANA,  PETER,  and  Provost. 

Isab.  I  do,  my  lord. 

Duke.    For  this  new-married  man,  approaching  here, 
Whose  salt  imagination  yet  hath  wronged 
Your  well-defended  honor,  you  must  pardon 
For  Mariana's  sake  ;  but  as  he  adjudged  your  brother, 

1  Advertising  and  holy,  attentive  and  faithful. 

2  Perhaps  we  should  read  t/emonstrance. 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  417 

(Being  criminal,  in  double  violation 
Of  sacred  chastity,  and  of  promise-breach, 
Thereon  dependent  for  your  brother's  life,) 
The  very  mercy  of  the  law  cries  out 
Most  audible,  even  from  his  proper  tongue, 
An  Angela  for  Claudio,  death  for  death. 
Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure  ; 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  Measure  still  for  Measure. 
Then,  Angelo,  thy  fault's  thus  manifested ; 
Which,  though  thou  wpuld'st  deny,  denies  thee  van 
tage  : l 

We  do  condemn  thee  to  the  very  block 
Where  Claudio  stooped  to  death,  and  with  like  haste  ; — 
Away  with  him. 

Mari.  O,  my  most  gracious  lord, 

I  hope  you  will  not  mock  me  with  a  husband ! 

Duke.    It  is  your  husband  mocked  you  with  a  hus 
band: 

Consenting  to  the  safeguard  of  your  honor, 
I  thought  your  marriage  fit ;  else  imputation, 
For  that  he  knew  you,  might  reproach  your  life, 
And  choke  your  good  to  come ;  for  his  possessions, 
Although  by  confiscation  they  are  ours, 
We  do  instate  and  widow  you  withal, 
To  buy  you  a  better  husband. 

Mari.  O,  my  dear  lord, 

1  crave  no  other,  nor  no  better  man. 

Duke.    Never  crave  him  ;  we  are  definitive. 

Mari.    Gentle,  my  liege, —  [Kneeling. 

Duke.  You  do  but  lose  your  labor ; 

Away  with  him  to  death. — Now,    sir,   [To  Lucio.] 
to  you. 

Mari.    O,  my  good  lord ! — Sweet  Isabel,  take  my 

part; 

Lend  me  your  knees,  and,  all  my  life  to  come, 
I'll  lend  you  all  my  life  to  do  you  service. 

Duke.    Against  all  sense  you  do  importune  her : 
Should  she  kneel  down,  in  mercy  of  this  fact, 

1  i.  e.  "  to  deny  which  will  avail  thee  nothing." 
VOL.  i.  53 


418  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  V 

Her  brother's  ghost  his  paved  bed  would  break, 
And  take  her  hence  in  horror. 

Marl.  Isabel, 

Sweet  Isabel,  do  yet  but  kneel  by  me  ; 
Hold  up  your  hands  ;  say  nothing  ;  I'll  speak  all. 
They  say,  best  men  are  moulded  out  of  faults ; 
And,  for  the  most,  become  much  more  the  better 
For  being  a  little  bad :  so  may  my  husband. 
O,  Isabel !  will  you  not  lend  a  knee  ? 

Duke.    He  dies  for  Claudio's  death. 

Isab.  Most  bounteous  sir, 

[Kneeling. 

Look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man  condemned, 
As  if  my  brother  lived :   I  partly  think, 
A  due  sincerity  governed  his  deeds, 
Till  he  did  look  on  me :  since  it  is  so, 
Let  him  not  die  :     My  brother  had  but  justice, 
In  that  he  did  the  thing  for  which  he  died : 
For  Angelo, 

His  act  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent ; 
And  must  be  buried  but  as  an  intent 
That  perished  by  the  way :  thoughts  are  no  subjects , 
Intents  but  merely  thoughts. 

Mari.  Merely,  my  lord. 

Duke.    Your  suit's  unprofitable ;  stand  up,  I  say. — 
1  have  bethought  me  of  another  fault : — 
Provost,  how  came  it  Claudio  was  beheaded 
At  an  unusual  hour  ? 

Prov.  It  was  commanded  so. 

Duke.    Had  you  a  special  warrant  for  the  deed  f 

Prov.    No,  my  good  lord  ;  it  was  by  private  message. 

Duke.    For  which  I  do  discharge  you  of  your  office  . 
Give  up  your  keys. 

Prov.  Pardon  me,  noble  lord  : 

I  thought  it  was  a  fault,  but  knew  it  not ; 
Yet  did  repent  me,  after  more  advice  : 
For  testimony  whereof,  one  in  the  prison 
That  should  by  private  order  else  have  died, 
I  have  reserved  alive. 

Duke.  What's  he  ? 


SC.  I.]          MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  419 

Prov.    His  name  is  Barnardine. 

Duke.    I  would  thou  had'st  done  so  by  Claudio. 
Go,  fetch  him  hither ;  let  me  look  upon  him. 

[Exit  Provost 

Escal.    I  am  sorry,  one  so  learned  and  so  wise 
As  you,  lord  Angelo,  have  still  appeared, 
Should  slip  so  grossly,  both  in  the  heat  of  blood, 
And  lack  of  tempered  judgment  afterward. 

Ang.    I  am  sorry,  that  such  sorrow  I  procure ; 
And  so  deep  sticks  it  in  my  penitent  heart, 
That  I  crave  death  more  willingly  than  mercy ; 
?Tis  my  deserving,  and  I  do  entreat  it. 

Re-enter  Provost,  BARNARDINE,  CLAUDIO,  and  JULIET. 

Duke.    Which  is  that  Barnardine  ? 

Prov.  This,  my  lord. 

Duke.    There  was  a  friar  told  me  of  this  man  : — 
Sirrah,  thou  art  said  to  have  a  stubborn  soul, 
That  apprehends  no  further  than  this  world, 
And  squar'st  thy  life  according.     Thou'rt  condemned  ; 
But,  for  those  earthly  *  faults,  I  quit  them  all ; 
And  pray  thee,  take  this  mercy  to  provide 
For  better  times  to  come  : — friar,  advise  him  ; 
I  leave  him  to  your  hand.     What  muffled  fellow's  that  ? 

Prov.    This  is  another  prisoner,  that  I  saved, 
That  should  have  died  when  Claudio  lost  his  head  ; 
As  like  almost  to  Claudio  as  himself. 

[Unmuffles  CLAUDIO. 

Duke.    If  he  be  like  your  brother,     [To  ISABELLA.] 

for  his  sake 

Is  he  pardoned ;  and,  for  your  lovely  sake, 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  say  you  will  be  mine. 
He  is  my  brother  too ;  but  fitter  time  for  that. 
By  this,  lord  Angelo  perceives  he's  safe  ; 
Methinks  I  see  a  quickening  in  his  eye  : — 
Well,  Angelo,  your  evil  quits 2  you  well : 

1  i.  e.  so  far  as  they  are  punishable  on  earth. 

2  Requites. 


420  MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.         [ACT  V- 

Look   that   you   love   your   wife ;    her   worth,    worth 

yours.1 — 

I  find  an  apt  remission  in  myself: 
And  yet  here's  one  in  place  I  cannot  pardon ; — 
You,  sirrah,  [To  Lucio.]  that  knew  me  for  a  fool,  a 

coward, 

One  all  of  luxury,2  an  ass,  a  madman ; 
Wherein  have  I  so  deserved  of  you, 
That  you  extol  me  thus  ? 

Lucio.  'Faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  it  but  according  to 
the  trick  : 3  If  you  will  hang  me  for  it,  you  may,  but 
I  had  rather  it  would  please  you  I  might  be  whipped. 

Duke.    Whipped  first,  sir,  and  hanged  after. — 
Proclaim  it,  provost,  round  about  the  city ; 
If  any  woman's  wronged  by  this  lewd  fellow, 
(As  I  have  heard  him  swear  himself,  there's  one 
Whom  he  begot  with  child,)  let  her  appear, 
And  he  shall  marry  her :  the  nuptial  finished, 
Let  him  be  whipped  and  hanged. 

Lucio.  I  beseech  your  highness,  do  not  marry  me 
to  a  whore !  Your  highness  said  even  now,  I  made 
you  a  duke ;  good  my  lord,  do  not  recompense  me  in 
making  me  a  cuckold. 

Duke.    Upon  mine  honor,  thou  shalt  marry  her. 
Thy  slanders  I  forgive  ;  and  therewithal 
Remit  thy  other  forfeits. — Take  him  to  prison  : 
And  see  our  pleasure  herein  executed. 

Lucio.  Marrying  a  punk,  my  lord,  is  pressing  to 
death,  whipping,  and  hanging. 

Duke.    Slandering  a  prince  deserves  it. — 
She,  Claudio,  that  you  wronged,  look  you  restore. 
Joy  to  you,  Mariana! — Love  her,  Angelo ; 
I  have  confessed  her,  and  I  know  her  virtue. — 
Thanks,  good  friend  Escalus,  for  thy  much  goodness . 
There's  more  behind,  that  is  more  gratulate.4 

T  "  Her  worth  worth  yours ; "  that  is,  "  her  value  is  equal  to  yours ;  the 
match  is  not  unworthy  of  you." 

2  Incontinence. 

3  Thoughtless  practice. 

4  i.  e.  more  to  be  rejoiced  in. 


SO.  I.]         MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE.  421 

Thanks,  provost,  for  thy  care  and  secrecy; 

We  shall  employ  thee  in  a  worthier  place  : — 

Forgive  him,  Angelo,  that  brought  you  home 

The  head  of  Ragozine  for  Claudio's ; 

The  offence  pardons  itself. — Dear  Isabel, 

I  have  a  motion  much  imports  your  good ; 

Whereto  if  you'll  a  willing  ear  incline, 

What's  mine  is  yours,  and  what  is  yours  is  mine. — 

So,  bring  us  to  our  palace ;  where  we'll  show 

What's  yet  behind,  that's  meet  you  all  should  know. 

[Exeunt. 


422 


THE  novel  of  Giraldi  Cinthio,  from  which  Shakspeare  is  supposed  to 
have  borrowed  this  fable,  may  be  read  in  Shakspeare  Illustrated,  elegantly 
translated,  with  remarks,  which  will  assist  the  inquirer  to  discover  how 
much  absurdity  Shakspeare  has  admitted  or  avoided. 

1  cannot  but  suspect  that  some  other  had  new-modelled  the  novel  of 
Cinthio,  or  written  a  story  which  in  some  particulars  resembled  it,  and  that 
Cinthio  was  not  the  author  whom  Shakspeare  immediately  followed. 
The  emperor  in  Cinthio  is  named  Maximine :  the  duke  in  Shakspeare's 
enumeration  of  the  persons  of  the  drama,  is  called  Vincentio.  This  ap 
pears  a  very  slight  remark ;  but  since  the  duke  has  no  name  in  the  play, 
nor  is  ever  mentioned  but  by  his  title,  why  should  he  be  called  Vincentio 
among  the  persons,  but  because  the  name  was  copied  from  the  story,  and 
placed  superfluously  at  the  head  of  the  list  by  the  mere  habit  of  transcrip 
tion  ?  It  is  therefore  likely  that  there  was  then  a  story  of  Vincentio, 
Duke  of  Vienna,  different  from  that  of  Maximine,  Emperor  of  the  Romans. 

Of  this  play,  the  light  or  comic  part  is  very  natural  and  pleasing,  but 
the  grave  scenes,  if  a  few  passages  be  excepted,  have  more  labor  than 
elegance.  The  plot  is  rather  intricate  than  artful.  The  time  of  the  ac 
tion  is  indefinite :  some  time,  we  know  not  how  much,  must  have  elapsed 
between  the  recess  of  the  duke  and  the  imprisonment  of  Claudio;  for  he 
must  have  learned  the  story  of  Mariana  in  his  disguise,  or  he  delegated 
his  power  to  a  man  already  known  to  be  corrupted.*  The  unities  of  action 

and  place  are  sufficiently  preserved. 

JOHNSON. 

*  The  duke  probably  had  learned  the  story  of  Mariana  in  some  of  his  former  retirements, 
"  having  ever  loved  the  life  removed."  And  he  had  a  suspicion  that  Angelo  was  but  a 
secmcr,  and  therefore  stays  to  watch  him.  BLACKSTONE. 


423 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


PRELIMINARY    REMARKS. 

IT  is  said  that  the  main  plot  of  this  play  is  derived  from  the  story  of 
Ariodante  and  Ginevra,  in  the  fifth  book  of  Ariosto's-  Orlando  Furioso. 
Something  similar  may  also  be  found  in  the  fourth  canto  of  the  second 
book  of  Spenser's  Faerie  Queene ;  but  a  novel  of  Bandello's,  copied  by 
Belleforest  in  his  Tragical  Histories,  seems  to  have  furnished  Shakspeare 
with  the  fable.  It  approaches  nearer  to  the  play  in  all  particulars  than 
any  other  performance  hitherto  discovered.  No  translation  of  it  into 
English  has,  however,  yet  been  met  with. 

This  play  is  supposed  to  have  been  written  in  1600,  in  which  year  it 
was  first  published. 


424 


PERSONS    REPRESENTED. 

DON  PEDRO,  Prince  o/"Arragon. 
DON  JOHN,  Ms  bastard  Brother. 
CLAUDIO,  a  young  Lord  of  Florence,  favorite  to  Don 

Pedro. 
BENEDICK,  a  young  Lord  of  Padua.,  favorite  likewise  of 

Don  Pedro. 

LEONATO,  Governor  of  Messina. 
ANTONIO,  his  Brother. 
BALTHAZAR,  Servant  to  Don  Pedro. 
BORACHIO,    )  Followers  Oy  Don  John. 

CONRADE,      ) 

f™™' \tvofoolisk  Officers. 

A  Sexton. 
A  Friar. 
A  Boy. 

HERO,  Daughter  to  Leonato. 
BEATRICE,  Niece  to  Leonato. 

MARGARET,  )  Qentiewomen  attending  on  Hero. 
URSULA,        j 

Messengers,  Watch,  and  Attendants. 
SCENE.    Messina. 


425 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.     Before  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  HERO,  BEATRICE,  and  others,  with  a 
Messenger. 

Leonato.  1  LEARN  in  this  letter,  that  don  Pedro 1  of 
Arragon  comes  this  night  to  Messina. 

Mess.  He  is  very  near  by  this ;  he  was  not  three 
leagues  off  when  I  left  him. 

Leon.  How  many  gentlemen  have  you  lost  in  this 
action  ? 

Mess.   But  few  of  any  sort,  and  none  of  name. 

Leon.  A  victory  is  twice  itself,  when  the  achiever 
brings  home  full  numbers.  I  find  here,  that  don 
Pedro  hath  bestowed  much  honor  on  a  young  Floren 
tine,  called  Claudio. 

Mess.  Much  deserved  on  his  part,  and  equally 
remembered  by  don  Pedro :  he  hath  borne  himself 
beyond  the  promise  of  his  age ;  doing,  in  the  figure  of 
a  lamb,  the  feats  of  a  lion :  he  hath,  indeed,  better 
bettered  expectation,  than  you  must  expect  of  me  to 
tell  you  how. 

Leon.  He  hath  an  uncle  here  in  Messina  will  be 
very  much  glad  of  it. 

Mess.  I  have  already  delivered  him  letters,  and  there 
appears  much  joy  in  him  ;  even  so  much,  that  joy  could 
not  show  itself  modest  enough,  without  a  badge  of 
bitterness. 

1  The  old  copies  read  don  Peter. 
VOL.  i.  54 


423  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  1 


Enter  DON  PEDRO,  attended  by  BALTHAZAR  and  other  s, 
DON  JOHN,  CLAUDIO,  and  BENEDICK. 

D.  Pedro.  Good  seignior  Leonato,  you  are  come  to 
meet  your  trouble  :  the  fashion  of  the  world  is  to  avoid 
cost,  and  you  encounter  it. 

Leon.  Never  came  trouble  to  my  house  in  the  like 
ness  of  your  grace ;  for  trouble  being  gone,  comfort 
should  remain ;  but,  when  you  depart  from  rne,  sorrow 
abides,  and  happiness  takes  his  leave. 

D.  Pedro.  You  embrace  jrour  charge ]  too  willingly. 
I  think,  this  is  your  daughter. 

Leon.    Her  mother  hath  many  times  told  me  so. 

Bene.    Were  you  in  doubt,  sir,  that  you  asked  her  ? 

Leon.  Seignior  Benedick,  no ;  for  then  were  you  a 
child. 

D.  Pedro.  You  have  it  full,  Benedick :  we  may 
guess  by  this  what  you  are,  being  a  man.  Truly,  the 
lady  fathers  herself: 2 — Be  happy,  lady  !  For  you  are 
like  an  honorable  father. 

Bene.  If  seignior  Leonato  be  her  father,  she  would 
not  have  his  head  on  her  shoulders,  for  all  Messina,  as 
like  him  as  she  is. 

Beat.  I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  seign 
ior  Benedick ;  no  body  marks  you. 

Bene.  What,  my  dear  lady  Disdain! — Are  you  yet 
living  ? 

Beat.  Is  it  possible  disdain  should  die,  while  she 
hath  such  meet  food  to  feed  it  as  seignior  Benedick  ? 
Courtesy  itself  must  convert  to  disdain,  if  you  come  in 
her  presence. 

Bene.  Then  is  courtesy  a  turncoat : — but  it  is  cer 
tain,  I  am  loved  of  all  ladies,  only  you  excepted  ;  and 
I  would  I  could  find  in  my  heart  that  I  had  not  a  hard 
heart;  for,  truly,  I  love  none. 

1  i.  e.  encumbrance,  or,  according  to  Mr.  Douce,  the  person  committed 
to  your  care. 

2  This  phrase  is  common  in  Dorsetshire.     "  Jack  fathers  himself,"  ia 
like  his  father. 


SO.  1.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          429 

Beat.  A  dear  happiness  to  women  ;  they  would  else 
have  been  troubled  with  a  pernicious  suitor.  I  thank 
God,  and  my  cold  blood,  I  am  of  your  humor  for  that ; 
I  had  rather  hear  my  dog  bark  at  a  crow,  than  a  man 
swear  he  loves  me. 

Bene.  God  keep  your  ladyship  still  in  that  mind ! 
so  some  gentleman  or  other  shall  'scape  a  predestinate 
scratched  face. 

Beat.  Scratching  could  not  make  it  worse,  an  'twere 
such  a  face  as  yours  were. 

Bene.    Well,  you  are  a  rare  parrot-teacher. 

Beat.  A  bird  of  my  tongue  is  better  than  a  beast 
of  yours. 

Bene.  I  would  my  horse  had  the  speed  of  your 
tongue  ;  and  so  good  a  continuer :  but  keep  your  way 
o'  God's  name ;  I  have  done. 

Beat.  You  always  end  with  a  jade's  trick ;  I  know 
you  of  old. 

D.  Pedro.  This  is  the  sum  of  all :  Leonato, — seign 
ior  Claudio,  and  seignior  Benedick, — my  dear  friend 
Leonato  hath  invited  you  all.  I  tell  him,  we  shall 
stay  here  at  the  least  a  month ;  and  he  heartily  prays, 
some  occasion  may  detain  us  longer :  I  dare  swear  he 
is  no  hypocrite,  but  prays  from  his  heart. 

Leon.  If  you  swear,  my  lord,  you  shall  not  be  for 
sworn. — Let  me  bid  you  welcome,  my  lord  ;  being  rec 
onciled  to  the  prince  your  brother,  I  owe  you  all  duty. 

D.  John.  I  thank  you :  I  am  not  of  many  words, 
but  I  thank  you. 

Leon.    Please  it  your  grace  lead  on  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Your  hand,  Leonato ;  we  will  go  to 
gether.  [Exeunt  all  but  BENEDICK  and  CLAUDIO. 

Claud.  Benedick,  didst  thou  note  the  daughter  of 
seignior  Leonato  ? 

Bene.    I  noted  her  not ;  but  I  looked  on  her. 

Claud.    Is  she  not  a  modest  young  lady  ? 

Bene.  Do  you  question  me  as  an  honest  man  should 
do,  for  my  simple  true  judgment  ?  Or  would  you  have 
me  speak  after  my  custom,  as  being  a  professed  tyrant 
to  their  sex  ? 


430  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  1- 

Claud.    No,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  sober  judgment. 

Bene.  Why,  i'faith,  methinks  she  is  too  low  for  a 
high  praise,  too  brown  for  a  fair  praise,  and  too  little 
for  a  great  praise  :  only  this  commendation  I  can 
afford  her  ;  that  were  she  other  than  she  is,  she  were 
unhandsome  ;  and  being  no  other  but  as  she  is,  I  do 
not  like  her. 

Claud.  Thou  thinkest  lam  in  sport  ;  1  pray  thee, 
tell  me  truly  how  thou  likest  her. 

Bene.   Would  you  buy  her,  that  you  inquire  after  her  ? 

Claud.    Can  the  world  buy  such  a  jewel  ? 

Bene.  Yea,  and  a  case  to  put  it  into.  But  speak 
you  this  with  a  sad  brow  ?  Or  do  you  play  the  flout 
ing  Jack  ;  to  tell  us  Cupid  is  a  good  hare-finder,  and 
Vulcan  a  rare  carpenter?1  Come,  in  what  key  shall  a 
man  take  you  to  go  in  the  song  ?2 

Claud.  In  mine  eye,  she  is  the  sweetest  lady  that 
ever  I  looked  on. 

Bene.  I  can  see  yet  without  spectacles,  and  I  see 
no  such  matter  :  there's  her  cousin,  an  she  were  not 
possessed  with  a  fury,  exceeds  her  as  much  in  beau 
ty  as  the  first  of  May  doth  the  last  of  December.  But 
I  hope  you  have  no  intent  to  turn  husband  ;  have  you  ? 

Claud.  I  would  scarce  trust  myself,  though  I  had 
sworn  the  contrary,  if  Hero  would  be  my  wife. 

Bene.  Is  it  come  to  this,  i'faith  ?  Hath  not  the 
world  one  man,  but  he  will  wear  his  cap  with  sus 
picion  ?3  Shall  I  never  see  a  bachelor  of  threescore 
again  ?  Go  to,  i'faith  ;  an  thou  wilt  needs  thrust  thy 
neck  into  a  yoke,  wear  the  print  of  it,  and  sigh  away 
Sundays.  Look,  don  Pedro  is  returned  to  seek  you. 

Re-enter  DON  PEDRO. 

D.  Pedro.  What  secret  hath  held  you  here,  that 
vou  followed  not  to  Leonato's  ? 

»/ 

Bene.  I  would  your  grace  would  constrain  me 
to  tell. 


1  Do  you  mean  to  amuse  us  with  improbable  stories  ? 

a  i.  e.  to  join  in  the  song-. 

y  i.  c.  subject  Ins  head  to  the  disquiet  of  'jealousy. 


<5C.  1.]  MUCH   ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  431 

D.  Pedro.    I  charge  thee  on  thy  allegiance. 

Bene.  You  hear,  count  Claudio :  I  can  be  secret  as 
a  dumb  man,  I  would  have  you  think  so ;  but  on  my 
allegiance, — mark  you  this,  on  my  allegiance  : — he  is 
in  love.  With  who  ? — Now  that  is  your  grace's  part. 
— Mark  how  short  his  answer  is : — with  Hero,  Leo- 
nato's  short  daughter. 

Claud.    If  this  were  so,  so  were  it  uttered. 

Bene.  Like  the  old  tale,  my  lord :  it  is  not  so,  nor 
'twas  not  so ;  but,  indeed,  God  forbid  it  should  be  so. 

Claud.  If  my  passion  change  not  shortly,  God  for 
bid  it  should  be  otherwise. 

D.  Pedro.  Amen,  if  you  love  her ;  for  the  lady  is 
very  well  worthy. 

Claud.    You  speak  this  to  fetch  me  in,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.    By  my  troth,  I  speak  my  thought. 

Claud.    And,  in  faith,  my  lord,  I  spoke  mine. 

Bene.  And,  by  my  two  faiths  and  troths,  my  lord,  I 
spoke  mine. 

Claud.    That  I  love  her,  I  feel. 

D.  Pedro.    That  she  is  worthy,  I  know. 

Bene.  That  I  neither  feel  how  she  should  be  loved, 
nor  know  how  she  should  be  worthy,  is  the  opinion  that 
fire  cannot  melt  out  of  me  ;  I  will  die  in  it  at  the  stake. 

D.  Pedro.  Thou  wast  ever  an  obstinate  heretic  in 
the  despite  of  beauty. 

Claud.  And  never  could  maintain  his  part,  but  in 
the  force  of  his  will.1 

Bene.  That  a  woman  conceived  me,  I  thank  her ; 
that  she  brought  me  up,  I  likewise  give  her  most  hum 
ble  thanks  ;  but  that  I  will  have  a  recheat 2  winded  in 
my  forehead,  or  hang  my  bugle  in  an  invisible  baldrick, 
all  women  shall  pardon  me  :  because  I  will  not  do  them 
the  wrong  to  mistrust  any,  I  will  do  myself  the  right 
to  trust  none;  and  the  fine3  is,  (for  the  which  I  may 
go  the  finer,)  I  will  live  a  bachelor. 

1  By  obstinacy  against  conviction,  alluding  to  the  definition  of  a  heretic 
in  the  schools. 

2  That  is,  wear  a  horn  on  my  forehead,  ivhich  the  huntsman  may  How. 
Jl  recheat  is  the  sound  by  which  the  dogs  are  called  back  from  the  scent. 

3  The  fine  is  the  conclusion. 


432          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [ACT  I. 

D.  Pedro.  I  shall  see  thee,  ere  I  die,  look  pale 
with  love. 

Bene.  With  anger,  with  sickness,  or  with  hunger, 
my  lord ;  not  with  love :  prove  that  ever  I  lose  more 
blood  with  love,  than  I  will  get  again  with  drinking, 
pick  out  mine  eyes  with  a  ballad-maker's  pen,  and 
hang  me  up  at  the  door  of  a  brothel-house,  for  the  sign 
of  blind  Cupid. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  if  ever  tliou  dost  fell  from  this 
faith,  thou  wilt  prove  a  notable  argument.1 

Bene.  If  1  do,  hang  me  in  a  bottle  like  a  cat,2  and 
shoot  at  me ;  and  he  that  hits  me,  let  him  be  clapped 
on  the  shoulder,  and  called  Adam.3 

D.  Pedro.    Well,  as  time  shall  try : 
In  time  the  savage  bull  doth  bear  the  yoke.4 

Bene.  The  savage  bull  may ;  but  if  ever  the  sensi 
ble  Benedick  bear  it,  pluck  off  the  bull's  horns,  and  set 
them  in  my  forehead :  and  let  me  be  vilely  painted ; 
and  in  such  great  letters  as  they  write,  Here  is  good 
horse  to  hire,  let  them  signify  under  my  sign, — Here 
you  may  see  Benedick  the  married  man. 

Claud.  If  this  should  ever  happen,  thou  would'st  be 
horn-mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  if  Cupid  have  not  spent  all  his 
quiver  in  Venice,  thou  wilt  quake  for  this  shortly. 

Bcnc.     (  look  for  an  earthquake  too  then. 

D.  Pedro.   Well,  you  will  temporize  with  the  hours. 

In  the  mean  time,  good  seignior  Benedick,  repair  to 

mate's;  commend  me  to  him,  and  tell  him,    I   will 

iiot  fail  him  at  supper ;  for,  indeed,  he  hath  made  great 

preparation. 

Bene.  I  have  almost  matter  enough  in  me  for  such 
an  embassage  :  and  so  I  commit  you — 


,- 


you- 


1  A  capital  subject  for  satire. 

2  It  seems  to  have  been  one  of  the  inhuman  sports  of  the  time  to  in 
close  a  cat  in  a  wooden  tub  or  bottle  suspended  alo!'t  to  bo  shot  fit. 

y  i.  e.  Adam  Bell,  "  a  passing  good  archer/' who,  with  Clym  oi' the 
Cloughe  and  William  of  Cloudeslie,  were  outlaws  us  famous,  in  the  nouu 
of  England,  as  Robin  Hood  and  his  fellows  were  in  the  midland  counties. 

4  This  line  is  from  The  Spanish  Tragedy,  or  Hieronimo,  Cv,c.,  and  oc 
curs,  with  a  slight  variation,  in  Watson's  Sonnets,  156J. 


SC.  I.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          433 

Claud.  To  the  tuition  of  God :  From  my  house, 
(if  I  had  it)— 

D.  Pedro.  The  sixth  of  July :  Your  loving  friend, 
Benedick. 

Bene.  Nay,  mock  not,  mock  not :  the  body  of  your 
discourse  is  sometime  guarded l  with  fragments,  and  the 

c3  O  ' 

guards  are  but  slightly  basted  on  neither ;  ere  you  flout 
old  ends  any  further,  examine  your  conscience,  and  so 
I  leave  you.  [Exit  BENEDICK. 

Claud.    My  liege,  your  highness  now  may  do  me 
good. 

D.  Pedro.    My  love  is  thine    to   teach ;    teach   it 

but  how, 

And  thou  shalt  see  how  apt  it  is  to  learn 
Any  hard  lesson  that  may  do  thee  good. 

Claud.    Hath  Leonato  any  son,  my  lord  ? 

Z).  Pedro.    No  child  but  Hero ;   she's  his  only  heir 
Dost  thou  affect  her,  Claudio  ? 

Claud.  O,  my  lord, 

When  you  went  onward  on  this  ended  action, 
I  looked  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye, 
That  liked,  but  had  a  rougher  task  in  hand 
Than  to  drive  liking  to  the  name  of  love : 
But  now  I  am  returned,  and  that  war-thoughts 
Have  left  their  places  vacant,  in  their  rooms 
Come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  desires, 
All  prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is, 
Saying,  I  liked  her  ere  I  went  to  wars. 

D.  Pedro.    Thou  wilt  be  like  a  lover  presently, 
And  tire  the  hearer  with  a  book  of  words  : 
If  thou  dost  love  fair  Hero,  cherish  it ; 
And  I  will  break  with  her,  and  with  her  father, 
And  thou  shalt  have  her :  was't  not  to  this  end, 
That  thou  began'st  to  twist  so  fine  a  story  ? 

Claud.    How  sweetly  do  you  minister  to  love, 
That  know  love's  grief  by  his  complexion  ! 
But  lest  my  liking  might  too  sudden  seem, 
I  would  have  salved  it  with  a  longer  treatise 

l  Trimmed,  ornamented. 
VOL.  i.  55 


434  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  I. 

D.  Pedro.    What   need    the    bridge    much    broader 

than  the  flood  ? 

The  fairest  grant  is  the  necessity : 1 
Look,  what  will  serve,  is  fit :  'tis  once,2  thou  lov'st ; 
And  I  will  fit  thee  with  the  remedy. 
I  know  we  shall  have  revelling  to-night ; 
I  will  assume  thy  part  in  some  disguise, 
And  tell  fair  Hero  I  am  Claudio ; 
And  in  her  bosom  I'll  unclasp  my  heart, 
And  take  her  hearing  prisoner  with  the  force 
And  strong  encounter  of  my  amorous  tale  : 
Then,  after,  to  her  father  will  I  break ; 
And  the  conclusion  is,  she  shall  be  thine  : 
In  practice  let  us  put  it  presently.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  LEONATO  and  ANTONIO. 

Leon.  How  now,  brother?  Where  is  my  cousin, 
your  son  ?  Hath  he  provided  this  music  ? 

Ant.  He  is  very  busy  about  it.  But,  brother,  I 
can  tell  you  strange  news  that  you  yet  dreamed 
not  of. 

Leon.    Are  they  good  ? 

Ant.  As  the  event  stamps  them ;  but  they  have  a 
good  cover  ;  they  show  well  outward.  The  prince  and 
count  Claudio,  walking  in  a  thick-pleashed 3  alley  in 
my  orchard,  were  thus  much  overheard  by  a  man  of 
mine.  The  prince  discovered  to  Claudio.  that  he 
loved  my  niece  your  daughter,  and  meant  to  acknowl 
edge  it  this  night  in  a  dance;  and,  if  he  found  her 
accordant,  he  meant  to  take  the  present  time  by  the 
top,  and  instantly  break  with  you  of  it. 

Leon.    Hath  the  fellow  any  wit,  that  told  you  this  ? 

1  Mr.  Hayley  proposes  to  read,  "The  fairest  grant  is  to  necessity;" 
i.  e.  "  necessitas  quod  cogit  dcfendit" 

2  i.  e.  once  for  all. 

3  Thickly  interwoven. 


SC.  III.]  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  435 

Ant.  A  good  sharp  fellow :  I  will  send  for  him,  and 
question  him  yourself. 

Leon.  No,  no;  we  will  hold  it  as  a  dream,  till  it 
appear  itself: — but  I  will  acquaint  my  daughter  withal, 
that  she  may  be  the  better  prepared  for  an  answer,  if 
perad venture  this  be  true.  Go  you,  and  tell  her  of  it. 
[Several  persons  cross  the  stage.]  Cousins,  you  know 
what  you  have  to  do. — O,  I  cry  you  mercy,  friend ; 
you  go  with  me,  and  I  will  use  your  skill : — good 
cousins,  have  a  care  this  busy  time.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  DON  JOHN  and  CONRADE. 

Con.  What  the  goodjere,  my  lord !  Why  are  you 
thus  out  of  measure  sad  ? 

D.  John.  There  is  no  measure  in  the  occasion  that 
breeds  it,  therefore  the  sadness  is  without  limit. 

Con.    You  should  hear  reason. 

D.  John.  And  when  I  have  heard  it,  what  blessing 
bringeth  it  ? 

Con.  Tf  not  a  present  remedy,  yet  a  patient  suffer 
ance. 

D.  John.  I  wonder,  that  thou,  being  (as  thou  say'st 
thou  art)  born  under  Saturn,  goest  about  to  apply  a 
moral  medicine  to  a  mortifying  mischief.  I  cannot 
hide  what  I  am :  I  must  be  sad  when  I  have  cause, 
and  smile  at  no  man's  jests ;  eat  when  I  have  stomach, 
and  wait  for  no  man's  leisure  ;  sleep  when  I  am  drowsy, 
and  tend  to  no  man's  business ;  laugh  when  I  am 
merry,  and  claw l  no  man  in  his  humor. 

Con.  Yea,  but  you  must  not  make  the  full  show  of 
this,  till  you  may  do  it  without  controlment.  You 
have  of  late  stood  out  against  your  brother,  and  he 
hath  ta'en  you  newly  into  his  grace ;  where  it  is  im 
possible  you  should  take  true  root,  but  by  the  fair 

i  Flatter. 


436  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  I. 

weather  that  you  make  yourself :  it  is  needful  that  you 
frame  the  season  for  your  own  harvest. 

D.  John.  I  had  rather  be  a  canker1  in  a  hedge, 
than  a  rose  in  his  grace ;  and  it  better  fits  my  blood  to 
be  disdained  of  all,  than  to  fashion  a  carriage  to  rob 
love  from  any ;  in  this,  though  I  cannot  be  said  to  be 
a  flattering  honest  man,  it  must  not  be  denied  that  I 
am  a  plain-dealing  villain.  I  am  trusted  with  a  muzzle, 
and  enfranchised  with  a  clog  ;  therefore  I  have  decreed 
not  to  sing  in  my  cage  :  If  I  had  my  mouth,  I  would 
bite ;  if  I  had  my  liberty,  I  would  do  my  liking :  in 
the  mean  time,  let  me  be  that  I  am,  and  seek  not  to 
alter  me. 

Con.    Can  you  make  no  use  of  your  discontent  ? 

D.  John.  I  make  all  use  of  it,  for  I  use  it  only. 
Who  comes  here  ?  What  news,  Borachio  ? 

Enter  BORACHIO. 

Bora.  I  came  yonder  from  a  great  supper ;  the 
prince,  your  brother,  is  royally  entertained  by  Leo- 
nato ;  and  I  can  give  you  intelligence  of  an  intended 
marriage. 

D.  John.  Will  it  serve  for  any  model 2  to  build  mis 
chief  on  ?  What  is  he  for  a  fool,  that  betroths  himself 
to  unquietness  ? 

Bora.    Marry,  it  is  your  brother's  right  hand. 

D.  John.    Who  ?  the  most  exquisite  Claudio  ? 

Bora.    Even  he. 

D.  John.  A  proper  squire !  And  who,  and  who  ? 
Which  way  looks  he  ? 

Bora.  Marry,  on  Hero,  the  daughter  and  heir  of 
Leon  a  to. 

D.  John.  A  very  forward  March  chick  !  How  came 
you  to  this  ? 

Bora.    Being  entertained  for  a  perfumer,  as  I  was 


1  A  canker  is  the  canker-rose,  or  dog-rose.  "  I  had  rather  be  a  neg 
lected  dog-rose  in  a  hedge,  than  a  garden-rose  if  it  profited  by  hia 
culture." 

'-  3Iodd  is  here  used  in  an  unusual  sense ;  but  Bullokar  explains  it, 
'  Model,  the  platform^  or  form  of  any  thing." 


SC.  I.]  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  437 

smoking  a  musty  room,1  comes  me  the  prince  and 
Claudio,  hand  in  hand,  in  sad 2  conference  :  I  whipped 
me  behind  the  arras ;  and  there  heard  it  agreed  upon, 
that  the  prince  should  woo  Hero  for  himself,  and  having 
obtained  her,  give  her  to  count  Claudio. 

D.  John.  Come,  come,  let  us  thither ;  this  may 
prove  food  to  my  displeasure  ;  that  young  start-up  hath 
all  the  glory  of  my  overthrow ;  if  I  can  cross  him  any 
way,  I  bless  myself  every  way.  You  are  both  sure, 
and  will  assist  me  ? 

Con.    To  the  death,  my  lord. 

jD.  John.  Let  us  to  the  great  supper ;  their  cheer 
is  the  greater,  that  I  am  subdued  :  would  the  cook 
were  of  my  mind ! — Shall  we  go  prove  what's  to  be 
done  ? 

Bora.   We'll  wait  upon  your  lordship.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 

SCENE  1.     A  Hall  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  ANTONIO,  HERO,  BEATRICE,  and  others. 

Leon.    Was  not  count  John  here  at  supper  ? 

Ant.    I  saw  him  not. 

Beat.  How  tartly  that  gentleman  looks !  I  never 
can  see  him,  but  I  am  heart-burned  an  hour  after. 

Hero.    He  is  of  a  very  melancholy  disposition. 

Beat.  He  were  an  excellent  man,  that  were  made 
just  in  the  mid-way  between  him  and  Benedick  :  the 
one  is  too  like  an  image,  and  says  nothing ;  and  the 
other,  too  like  my  lady's  eldest  son,  evermore  tattling. 

Leon.    Then   half    seignior   Benedick's    tongue    in 

1  The  neglect  of  cleanliness  among  our  ancestors  rendered  such  pre 
cautions  too  often  necessary. 

2  Serious. 


438          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [ACT  II. 

count  John's  mouth,  and  half  count  John's  melancholy 
in  seignior  Benedick's  face, — 

O  ' 

Beat.  With  a  good  leg,  and  a  good  foot,  uncle,  and 
money  enough  in  his  purse,  such  a  man  would  win  any 
woman  in  the  world, — if  he  could  get  her  good  will. 

Leon.  By  my  troth,  niece,  thou  wilt  never  get  thee 
a  husband,  if  thou  be  so  shrewd  of  thy  tongue. 

Ant.  In  faith,  she  is  too  curst. 

Beat.  Too  curst  is  more  than  curst :  I  shall  lessen 
God's  sending  that  way :  for  it  is  said,  God  sends  a 
curst  cow  short  horns ;  but  to  a  cow  too  curst  he  sends 
none. 

Leon.  So,  by  being  too  curst,  God  will  send  you 
no  horns. 

Beat.  Just,  if  he  send  me  no  husband :  for  the 
which  blessing,  I  am  at  him  upon  my  knees  every 
morning  and  evening :  lord !  I  could  not  endure  a  hus 
band  with  a  beard  on  his  face ;  I  had  rather  lie  in  the 
woollen. 

Leon.  You  may  light  upon  a  husband  that  hath 
no  beard. 

Beat.  What  should  I  do  with  him  ?  dress  him  in 
my  apparel,  and  make  him  my  waiting  gentlewoman? 
He  that  hath  a  beard,  is  more  than  a  youth ;  and  he 
that  hath  no  beard,  is  less  than  a  man  :  and  he  that  is 
more  than  a  youth,  is  not  for  me  ;  and  he  that  is  less 
than  a  man,  I  am  not  for  him.  Therefore  I  will  even 
take  sixpence  in  earnest  of  the  bear-herd,  and  lead  his 
apes  into  hell. 

Leon.    Well,  then,  go  you  into  hell  ? 

Beat.  No  ;  but  to  the  gate  ;  and  there  will  the  devil 
meet  me,  like  an  old  cuckold,  with  horns  on  his  head, 
and  say,  Get  you  to  heaven,  Beatrice,  get  you  to  heaven  ; 
here^s  no  place  for  you  maids :  so  deliver  I  up  my  apes, 
and  away  to  Saint  Peter  for  the  heavens ;  he  shows 
me  where  the  bachelors  sit,  and  there  live  we  as  merry 
as  the  day  is  long. 

Ant.  Well,  niece,  [ To  HERO.]  I  trust  you  wifl  be 
ruled  by  your  father. 

Beat.    Yes,  faith ;  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make 


S3C.  I.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  439 

courtesy,  and  say,  Father,  as  it  please  you : — but  yet 
for  all  that,  cousin,  let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or 
else  make  another  courtesy,  and  say,  Father,  as  it 
please  me. 

Leon.  Well,  niece,  I  hope  to  see  you  one  day  fitted 
with  a  husband. 

Seat.  Not  till  God  make  men  of  some  other  metal 
than  earth.  Would  it  not  grieve  a  w^oman  to  be  over 
mastered  with  a  piece  of  valiant  dust  ?  To  make  an 
account  of  her  life  to  a  clod  of  wayward  marl  ?  No, 
uncle,  I'll  none  :  Adam's  sons  are  my  brethren  ;  and 
truly,  I  hold  it  a  sin  to  match  in  my  kindred. 

Leon.  Daughter,  remember  what  I  told  you ;  if  the 
prince  do  solicit  you  in  that  kind,  you  know  your  answer. 

Seat.  The  fault  will  be  in  the  music,  cousin,  if 
you  be  not  wooed  in  good  time :  if  the  prince  be  too 
important,1  tell  him,  there  is  measure 2  in  every  thing, 
and  so  dance  out  the  answer.  For  hear  me,  Hero ; 
wooing,  wedding,  and  repenting,  is  as  a  Scotch  jig,  a 
measure,  and  a  cinque-pace ;  the  first  suit  is  hot  and 
hasty,  like  a  Scotch  jig,  and  full  as  fantastical ;  the 
wedding,  mannerly-modest,  as  a  measure  full  of  state 
and  ancientry ;  and  then  comes  repentance,  and,  with 
his  bad  legs,  falls  into  the  cinque-pace  faster  and  faster, 
till  he  sink  into  his  grave. 

Leon.    Cousin,  you  apprehend  passing  shrewdly. 

Beat.  I  have  a  good  eye,  uncle ;  I  can  see  a  church 
by  day-light. 

Leon.  The  revellers  are  entering ;  brother,  make 
good  room. 

Enter  DON  PEDRO,  CLAUDIO,  BENEDICK,  BALTHAZAR  ; 
DON  JOHN,  BORACHIO,  MARGARET,  URSULA,  and 
others  masked. 

D.  Pedro.  Lady,  will  you  walk  about  with  your 
friend  ? 

1  Importunate. 

2  A  measure,  in  old  language,  besides  its  ordinary  meaning,  signified 
also  a  dance. 


440  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  11 

Hero.  So  you  walk  softly,  and  look  sweetly,  and 
say  nothing,  I  am  yours  for  the  walk ;  and,  especially, 
when  I  walk  away. 

D.  Pedro.    With  me  in  your  company  ? 

Hero.    I  may  say  so,  when  I  please. 

D.  Pedro.    And  when  please  you  to  say  so  ? 

Hero.  When  I  like  your  favor ;  for  God  defend,  the 
lute  should  be  like  the  case ! 

D.  Pedro.  My  visor  is  Philemon's  roof;  within  the 
house  is  Jove.1 

Hero.    Why,  then,  your  visor  should  be  thatched. 

D.  Pedro.    Speak  low,  if  you  speak  love. 

[Takes  her  aside. 

Bene.   Well,  I  would  you  did  like  me. 

Marg.  So  would  not  I,  for  your  own  sake ;  for  I 
have  many  ill  qualities. 

Bene.   Which  is  one  ? 

Marg.    I  say  my  prayers  aloud. 

Bene.  I  love  you  the  better ;  the  hearers  may  cry, 
Amen. 

Marg.    God  match  me  with  a  good  dancer  ! 

Balth.    Amen. 

Marg.  And  God  keep  him  out  of  my  sight,  when 
the  dance  is  done  ! — Answer,  clerk. 

Balth.    No  more  words  ;  the  clerk  is  answered. 

Urs.  I  know  you  well  enough ;  you  are  seignior 
Antonio. 

Ant.    At  a  word,  I  am  not. 

Urs.    I  know  you  by  the  waggling  of  your  head. 

Ant.    To  tell  you  true,  I  counterfeit  him. 

ifrs.  You  could  never  do  him  so  ill-well,  unless  you 
were  the  very  man  :  here's  his  dry  hand  up  and  down  ; 
you  are  he,  you  are  he. 

Ant.    At  a  word  I  am  not. 

Urs.  Come,  come  ;  do  you  think  I  do  not  know  you 
by  your  excellent  wit?  Can  virtue  hide  itself?  Go 
TO,  mum,  you  are  he  ;  graces  will  appear,  and  there's 
an  end. 

1  Alluding  to  the  fable  of  Baucis  and  Philemon  in  Ovid. 


SC.  I.]  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  441 

Beat.    Will  you  not  tell  me  who  told  you  so  ? 

Bene.    No,  you  shall  pardon  me. 

Beat.    Nor  will  you  not  tell  me  who  you  are  ? 

Bene.   Not  now. 

Beat.  That  I  was  disdainful, — and  that  I  had  my 
good  wit  out  of  the  Hundred  merry  Tales;1 — Well, 
this  was  seignior  Benedick  that  said  so. 

Bene.    What's  he  ? 

Beat.    I  am  sure,  you  know  him  well  enough. 

Bene.    Not  I,  believe  me. 

Beat.    Did  he  never  make  you  laugh  ? 

Bene.    1  pray  you,  what  is  he  ? 

Beat.  WThy,  he  is  the  prince's  jester ;  a  very  dull 
fool ;  only  his  gift  is  in  devising  impossible  slanders : 
none  but  libertines  delight  in  him ;  and  the  commen 
dation  is  not  in  his  wit,  but  in  his  villany ;  for  he  both 
pleaseth  men,  and  angers  them,  and  then  they  laugh 
at  him,  and  beat  him :  1  am  sure  he  is  in  the  fleet :  I 
would  he  had  boarded  me. 

Bene.  When  I  know  the  gentleman,  I'll  tell  him 
what  you  say. 

Beat.  Do,  do  :  he'll  but  break  a  comparison  or  two 
on  me  ;  which,  peradventure,  not  marked,  or  not  laughed 
at,  strikes  him  into  melancholy;  and  then  there's  a 
partridge  wing  saved,  for  the  fool  will  eat  no  supper 
that  night.  [Music  within. 

We  must  follow  the  leaders. 

Bene.    In  every  good  thing. 

Beat.  Nay,  if  they  lead  to  any  ill,  I  will  leave  them 
at  the  next  turning. 

[Dance.     Then  exeunt  all  but  DON  JOHN, 
BORACHIO,  and  CLAUDIO. 

D.  John.  Sure  my  brother  is  amorous  on  Hero,  and 
hath  withdrawn  her  father  to  break  with  him  about  it : 
the  ladies  follow  her,  and  but  one  visor  remains. 


i  This  was  a  term  for  a  jest-book  in  Shakspeare's  time,  from  a  popular 
collection   of  that   name,  about   which  the   commentators   were   much 
puzzled,  until  a  large  fragment  was  discovered  in  1815,  by  the  Rev.  J 
Conybeare,  Professor  of  Poetry  in  Oxford. 
VOL.  i.  56 


442  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  II 

Bora.  And  that  is  Claudio :  I  know  him  by  his 
bearing. 

D.  John.    Are  not  you  seignior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.    You  know  me  well ;  I  am  he. 

D.  John.  Seignior,  you  are  very  near  my  brother  in 
his  love  :  he  is  enamored  on  Hero  ;  I  pray  you,  dissuade 
him  from  her ;  she  is  no  equal  for  his  birth :  you  may 
do  the  part  of  an  honest  man  in  it. 

Claud.    How  know  you  he  loves  her  ? 

D.  John.    I  heard  him  swear  his  affection. 

Bora.  So  did  I  too ;  and  he  swore  he  would  marry 
her  to-night. 

D.  John.    Come,  let  us  to  the  banquet. 

[Exeunt  DON  JOHN  and  BORACHIO. 

Claud.    Thus  answer  I  in  name  of  Benedick, 
But  hear  these  ill  news  with  the  ears  of  Claudio. — 
'Tis  certain  so ; — the  prince  wooes  for  himself. 
Friendship  is  constant  in  all  other  things, 
Save  in  the  office  and  affairs  of  love  : 
Therefore,  all  hearts  in  love  use  their  own  tongues , 
Let  every  eye  negotiate  for  itself, 
And  trust  no  agent ;  for  beauty  is  a  witch, 
Against  whose  charms  faith  melteth  into  blood.1 
This  is  an  accident  of  hourly  proof, 
Which  I  mistrusted  not :  farewell,  therefore,  Hero ! 

Re-enter  BENEDICK. 

Bene.    Count  Claudio  ? 

Claud.    Yea,  the  same. 

Bene.    Come,  will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Claud.   Whither? 

Bene.  Even  to  the  next  willow,  about  your  own 
business,  count.  What  fashion  will  you  wear  the  gar 
land  of?  About  your  neck,  like  an  usurer's  chain  ?  or 
under  your  arm,  like  a  lieutenant's  scarf?  You  must 
wear  it  one  way,  for  the  prince  hath  got  your  Hero. 

Claud.    I  wish  him  joy  of  her. 

1  Blood  signifies  amorous  heat  or  passion. 


__  i 


SC.  1.]  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  443 

Bene.  Why,  that's  spoken  like  an  honest  drover  ;  so 
they  sell  bullocks.  But  did  you  think  the  prince  would 
have  served  you  thus  ? 

Claud.    I  pray  you,  leave  me. 

Bene.  Ho !  now  you  strike  like  the  blind  man : 
'twas  the  boy  that  stole  your  meat,  and  you'll  beat 
the  post. 

Claud.    If  it  will  not  be,  I'll  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Bene.  Alas,  poor  hurt  fowl !  Now  will  he  creep 

into  sedges. But,  that  my  lady  Beatrice  should 

know  me,  and  not  know  me !  The  prince's  fool ! — 
Ha !  it  may  be,  I  go  under  that  title,  because  I  am 
merry. — Yea  ;  but  so  ;  I  am  apt  to  do  myself  wrong  : 
I  am  not  so  reputed :  it  is  the  base,  the  bitter  disposi 
tion  of  Beatrice,  that  puts  the  world  into  her  person, 
and  so  gives  me  out.  Well,  I'll  be  revenged  as  I  may. 

Re-enter  DON  PEDRO. 

D.  Pedro.  Now,  seignior,  where's  the  count  ?  Did 
you  see  him  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  my  lord,  I  have  played  the  part  of 
lady  Fame.  I  found  him  here  as  melancholy  as  a 
lodge  in  a  warren ; *  I  told  him,  and,  I  think,  I  told 
him  true,  that  your  grace  had  got  the  good  will  of  this 
young  lady  ;  and  I  offered  him  my  company  to  a  willow 
tree,  either  to  make  him  a  garland,  as  being  forsaken, 
or  to  bind  him  up  a  rod,  as  being  worthy  to  be  whipped. 

D.  Pedro.    To  be  whipped  !     What's  his  fault  ? 

Bene.  The  flat  transgression  of  a  schoolboy ;  who, 
being  overjoyed  with  finding  a  bird's  nest,  shows  it  his 
companion,  and  he  steals  it. 

D.  Pedro.  Wilt  thou  make  a  trust  a  transgression  ? 
The  transgression  is  in  the  stealer. 

Bene.  Yet  it  had  not  been  amiss,  the  rod  had  been 
made,  and  the  garland  too ;  for  the  garland  he  might 

i  A  parallel  thought  occurs  in  Isaiah,  c.  i.,  where  the  prophet,  in  de 
scribing-  the  desolation  of  Judah,  says,  "  The  daughter  of  Zion  is  left  as  a 
cottage  in  a  vineyard,  as  a  lodge  in  a  garden  of  cucumbers,"  &c.  It  ap 
pears  that  these  lonely  buildings  were  necessary,  as  the  cucumbers,  &c. 
were  obliged  to  be  constantly  watched  and  watered,  and  that  as  soon  as 
the  crop  was  gathered  they  were  forsaken. 


444  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  II. 

have  worn  himself;  and  the  rod  he  might  have  bestowed 
on  you,  who,  as  I  take  it,  have  stolen  his  bird's  nest. 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  bat  teach  them  to  sing,  and  restore 
them  to  the  owner. 

Bene.  If  their  singing  answer  your  saying,  by  my 
faith  you  say  honestly. 

D.  Pedro.  The  lady  Beatrice  hath  a  quarrel  to  you  ; 
the  gentleman,  that  danced  with  her,  told  her,  she  is 
much  wronged  by  you. 

Bene.  O,  she  misused  me  past  the  endurance  of  a 
block ;  an  oak,  but  with  one  green  leaf  on  it,  would 
have  answered  her ;  my  very  visor  began  to  assume 
life,  and  scold  with  her :  She  told  me,  not  thinking  I 
had  been  myself,  that  I  was  the  prince's  jester :  that 
I  was  duller  than  a  great  thaw :  huddling  jest  upon 
jest,  with  such  impossible  conveyance  upon  me,  that  I 
stood  like  a  man  at  a  mark  with  a  whole  army  shooting 
at  me.  She  speaks  poniards,  and  every  word  stabs : 
if  her  breath  were  as  terrible  as  her  terminations,  there 
were  no  living  near  her ;  she  would  infect  to  the  north 
star.  1  would  not  marry  her,  though  she  were  endowed 
with  all  that  Adam  had  left  him  before  he  transgressed  ; 
she  would  have  made  Hercules  have  turned  spit ;  yea, 
and  have  cleft  his  club  to  make  the  fire  too.  Come, 
talk  not  of  her ;  you  shall  find  her  the  infernal  Ate  l  in 
good  apparel.  I  would  to  God,  some  scholar  would 
conjure  her ;  for,  certainly,  while  she  is  here,  a  man 
may  live  as  quiet  in  hell,  as  in  a  sanctuary ;  and  people 
sin  upon  purpose,  because  they  would  go  thither :  so, 
indeed,  all  disquiet,  horror,  and  perturbation  follow  her. 

Re-enter  CLAUDIO,  BEATRICE,  HERO,  and  LEONATO. 

D.  Pedro.    Look,  here  she  comes. 

Bene.  Will  your  grace  command  me  any  service  to 
the  world's  end  ?  I  will  go  on  the  slightest  errand 
now  to  the  antipodes,  that  you  can  devise  to  send  me 
on ;  I  will  fetch  you  a  toothpickcr  now  from  the  far 
thest  inch  of  Asia ;  bring  you  the  length  of  Prester 

1  The  goddess  of  discord. 


SC.  I.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  415 

John's  foot ;  fetch  you  a  hair  off  the  great  Cham's 
beard :  do  you  any  embassage  to  the  Pigmies,  rather 
than  hold  three  words'  conference  with  this  harpy : 
you  have  no  employment  for  me  ? 

D.  Pedro.    None,  but  to  desire  your  good  company 
Bene.    O  God,  sir,  here's  a  dish  I  love  not ;  I  can 
not  endure  my  lady  Tongue.  [Exit 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  lady,  come :  you  have  lost  the. 
heart  of  seignior  Benedick. 

O 

Beat.  Indeed,  my  lord,  he  lent  it  me  a  while  ;  and 
I  give  him  use 1  for  it,  a  double  heart  for  his  single 
one  :  marry,  once  before,  he  won  it  of  me  with  false 
dice ;  therefore  your  grace  may  well  say,  I  have 
lost  it. 

D.  Pedro.  You  have  put  him  down,  lady,  you  have 
put  him  down. 

Beat.  So  I  would  not  he  should  do  me,  my  lord, 
lest  I  should  prove  the  mother  of  fools.  I  have  brought 
count  Claudio,  whom  you  sent  me  to  seek. 

D.  Pedro.  Why,  how  now,  count  ?  Wherefore  are 
you  sad  ? 

Claud.   Not  sad,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.    How  then  ?     Sick  ? 

Claud.   Neither,  my  lord. 

Beat.  The  count  is  neither  sad,  nor  sick,  nor  merry, 
nor  well :  but  civil,  count ;  civil  as  an  orange,  and 
something  of  that  jealous  complexion. 

D.  Pedro.  I 'faith,  lady,  I  think  your  blazon  to  be 
true,  though,  I'll  be  sworn,  if  he  be  so,  his  conceit  is 
false.  Here,  Claudio,  I  have  wooed  in  thy  name,  and 
fair  Hero  is  won ;  I  have  broke  with  her  father,  and 
his  good  will  obtained  :  name  the  day  of  marriage,  and 
God  give  thee  joy ! 

Leon.  Count,  take  of  me  my  daughter,  and  with 
her  my  fortunes :  his  grace  hath  made  the  match,  and 
all  grace  say  Amen  to  it ! 

Beat.    Speak,  count,  'tis  your  cue. 

Claud.  Silence  is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy ;  I 
were  but  little  happy,  if  I  could  say  how  much. — 

i  Interest. 


446  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  II. 

Lady,  as  you  are  mine,  I  am  yours ;  I  give  away 
myself  for  you,  and  dote  upon  the  exchange. 

Beat.  Speak,  cousin,  or,  if  you  cannot,  stop  his 
mouth  with  a  kiss,  and  let  him  not  speak  neither. 

D.  Pedro.    In  faith,  lady,  you  have  a  merry  heart. 

Beat.  Yea,  my  lord :  I  thank  it,  poor  fool,  it  keeps 
on  the  windy  side  of  care  : — my  cousin  tells  him  in  his 
ear,  that  he  is  in  her  heart. 

Claud.    And  so  she  doth,  cousin. 

Beat.  Good  lord,  for  alliance ! — Thus  goes  every 
one  to  the  world  but  I,  and  I  am  sun-burned  ;  I  may 
sit  in  the  corner,  and  cry,  heigh  ho !  for  a  husband 

D.  Pedro.    Lady  Beatrice,  I  will  get  you  one. 

Beat.  I  would  rather  have  one  of  your  father's 
getting.  Hath  your  grace  ne'er  a  brother  like  you  ? 
Your  father  got  excellent  husbands,  if  a  maid  could 
come  by  them. 

D.  Pedro.    Will  you  have  me,  lady  ? 

Beat.  No,  my  lord,  unless  I  might  have  another  for 
working-days ;  your  grace  is  too  costly  to  wear  every 
day. — But  I  beseech  your  grace,  pardon  me :  I  was 
born  to  speak  all  mirth,  and  no  matter. 

D.  Pedro.  Your  silence  most  offends  me,  and  to  be 
merry  best  becomes  you ;  for,  out  of  question,  you 
were  born  in  a  merry  hour. 

Beat.  No,  sure,  my  lord,  my  mother  cried ;  but 
then  there  Avas  a  star  danced,  and  under  that  was  I 
born. — Cousins,  God  give  you  joy  ! 

Leon.  Niece,  will  you  look  to  those  things  I  told 
you  of? 

Beat.  I  cry  you  mercy,  uncle. — By  your  grace's 
pardon.  [Exit. 

D.  Pedro.    By  my  troth,  a  pleasant-spirited  lady. 

Ltcon.  There's  little  of  the  melancholy  element  in 
her,  my  lord  :  she  is  never  sad,  but  when  she  sleeps  ; 
and  not  ever  sad  then ;  for  I  have  heard  my  daughter 
say,  she  hath  often  dreamed  of  unhappiness,  and 
waked  herself  with  laughing. 

D.  Pedro.  She  cannot  endure  to  hear  tell  of  a 
husband. 


SC.  I.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          447 

Leon.  O,  by  no  means ;  she  mocks  all  her  wooers 
out  of  suit. 

D.  Pedro.    She  were  an  excellent  wife  for  Benedick. 

Leon.  O  Lord,  my  lord,  if  they  were  but  a  week 
married,  they  would  talk  themselves  mad. 

D.  Pedro.  Count  Claudio,  when  mean  you  to  go 
to  church  ? 

Claud.  To-morrow,  my  lord.  Time  goes  on  crutch 
es,  till  love  have  all  his  rites. 

Leon.  Not  till  Monday,  my  dear  son,  which  is  hence 
a  just  seven-night;  and  a  time  too  brief  too,  to  have 
all  things  answer  my  mind. 

D.  Pedro.  Come,  you  shake  the  head  at  so  long  a 
breathing ;  but,  I  warrant  thee,  Claudio,  the  time  shall 
not  go  dully  by  us ;  I  will,  in  the  interim,  undertake 
one  of  Hercules'  labors ;  which  is,  to  bring  seignior 
Benedick  and  the  lady  Beatrice  into  a  mountain  of 
affection,  the  one  with  the  other.  I  would  fain  have 
it  a  match ;  and  I  doubt  not  but  to  fashion  it,  if  you 
three  will  but  minister  such  assistance  as  I  shall  give 
you  direction. 

Leon.  My  lord,  I  am  for  you,  though  it  cost  me  ten 
nights'  watching. 

Claud.    And  I,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.    And  you,  too,  gentle  Hero  ? 

Hero.  I  will  do  any  modest  office,  my  lord,  to  help 
my  cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

D.  Pedro.  And  Benedick  is  not  the  unhopefullest 
husband  that  I  know :  thus  far  can  I  praise  him ;  he  is 
of  a  noble  strain,1  of  approved  valor,  and  confirmed 
honesty.  I  will  teach  you  how  to  humor  your  cousin, 
that  she  shall  fall  in  love  with  Benedick : — and  I,  with 
your  two  helps,  will  so  practise  on  Benedick,  that,  in 
despite  of  his  quick  wit  and  his  queasy  stomach,  he 
shall  fall  in  love  with  Beatrice.  If  we  can  do  this, 
Cupid  is  no  longer  an  archer ;  his  glory  shall  be  ours, 
for  we  are  the  only  love-gods.  Go  in  with  me,  and  1 
will  tell  you  my  drift.  [Exeunt. 

1  The  same  as  strene,  descent,  lineage. 


448  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  II. 


SCENE  II.     Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  DON  JOHN  and  BORACHIO. 

D.  John.  It  is  so ;  the  count  Claudio  shall  marry 
the  daughter  of  Leonato. 

Bora.    Yea,  my  lord ;  but  I  can  cross  it. 

D.  John.  Any  bar,  any  cross,  any  impediment  will 
be  medicinable  to  me.  I  am  sick  in  displeasure  to 
him ;  and  whatsoever  comes  athwart  his  affection, 
ranges  evenly  with  mine.  How  canst  thou  cross  this 
marriage  ? 

O 

Bora.  Not  honestly,  my  lord ;  but  so  covertly  that 
no  dishonesty  shall  appear  in  me. 

D.  John.    Show  me  briefly  how. 

Bora.  I  think,  I  told  your  lordship,  a  year  since, 
how  much  I  am  in  the  favor  of  Margaret,  the  waiting- 
gentlewoman  to  Hero. 

D.  John.    1  remember. 

Bora.  I  can,  at  any  unseasonable  instant  of  the 
night,  appoint  her  to  look  out  at  her  lady's  chamber- 
window. 

D.  John.  What  life  is  in  that  to  be  the  death  ot 
this  marriage  ? 

Bora.  The  poison  of  that  lies  in  you  to  temper. 
Go  you  to  the  prince,  your  brother ;  spare  not  to  tell 
him,  that  he  hath  wronged  his  honor  in  marrying  the 
renowned  Claudio  (whose  estimation  do  you  mightily 
hold  up)  to  a  contaminated  stale,  such  a  one  as  Hero. 

D.  John.    What  proof  shall  I  make  of  that  ? 

Bora.  Proof  enough  to  misuse  the  prince,  to  vex 
Claudio,  to  undo  Hero,  and  kill  Leonato.  Look  you 
for  any  other  issue  ? 

D.  John.  Only  to  despite  them,  I  will  endeavor 
any  thing. 

Bora.  Go  then,  find  me  a  meet  hour  to  draw  don 
Pedro  and  the  count  Claudio  alone.  Tell  them,  that 
you  know  that  Hero  loves  me ;  intend  l  a  kind  of  zeal 

i  Pretend. 


SC.  111.]  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  449 

both  to  the  prince  and  Claudio,  as — in  love  of  your 
brother's  honor,  who  hath  made  this  match ;  and  his 
friend's  reputation,  who  is  thus  like  to  be  cozened  with 
the  semblance  of  a  maid — that  you  have  discovered 
thus.  They  will  scarcely  believe  this  without  trial. 
Offer  them  instances ;  which  shall  bear  no  less  likeli 
hood,  than  to  see  me  at  her  chamber-window ;  hear 
me  call  Margaret,  Hero ;  hear  Margaret  term  me 
Claudio ; 1  and  bring  them  to  see  this,  the  very  night 
before  the  intended  wedding ;  for,  in  the  mean  time,  I 
will  so  fashion  the  matter,  that  Hero  shall  be  absent ; 
and  there  shall  appear  such  seeming  truth  of  Hero's 
disloyalty,  that  jealousy  shall  be  called  assurance,  and 
all  the  preparation  overthrown. 

D.  John.  Grow  this  to  what  adverse  issue  it  can, 
I  will  put  it  in  practice.  Be  cunning  in  the  working 
this,  and  thy  fee  is  a  thousand  ducats. 

Bora.  Be  you  constant  in  the  accusation,  and  my 
cunning  shall  not  shame  me. 

D.  John.  I  will  presently  go  learn  their  day  of 
marriage.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     Leonato's  Garden. 

Enter  BENEDICK  and  a  Boy. 

Bene.   Boy, — 

Boy.    Seignior. 

Bene.  In  my  chamber-window  lies  a  book ;  bring  it 
hither  to  me  in  the  orchard.2 

Boy.    I  am  here,  already,  sir. 

Bene.  I  know  that; — but  I  would  have  thee  hence, 
and  here  again.  [Exit  Boy.] — I  do  much  wonder, 
that  one  man,  seeing  how  much  another  man  is  a  fool 
when  he  dedicates  his  behaviors  to  love,  will,  after  he 
hath  laughed  at  such  shallow  follies  in  others,  become 


1  The  old  copies  read  Claudio  here.    Theobald  altered  it  to  Borachio. 

2  Gardens  were  once  called  orchards. 

VOL.  i.  57 


450  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  II 

the  argument  of  his  own  scorn,  by  falling  in  love. 
And  such  a  man  is  Claudio.  I  have  known  when 
there  was  no  music  with  him  but  the  drum  and  fife  ; 
and  now  had  he  rather  hear  the  tabor  and  the  pipe. 
I  have  known  when  he  would  have  walked  ten  mile 
afoot,  to  see  a  good  armor ;  and  now  will  he  lie  ten 
nights  awake,  carving  the  fashion  of  a  new  doublet. 
He  was  wont  to  speak  plain,  and  to  the  purpose,  like 
an  honest  man  and  a  soldier ;  and  now  is  he  turned 
orthographer  ;  his  words  are  a  very  fantastical  banquet, 
just  so  many  strange  dishes.  May  I  be  so  converted, 
and  see  with  these  eyes  ?  I  cannot  tell ;  I  think  not. 
I  will  not  be  sworn,  but  love  may  transform  me  to  an 
oyster ;  but  I'll  take  my  oath  on  it,  till  he  have  made 
an  oyster  of  me,  he  shall  never  make  me  such  a  fool. 
One  woman  is  fair ;  yet  I  am  well :  another  is  wise ; 
yet  I  am  well :  another  virtuous ;  yet  I  am  well :  but 
till  all  the  graces  be  in  one  woman,  one  woman  shall 
not  come  in  my  grace.  Rich  she  shall  be,  that's 
certain ;  wise,  or  I'll  none ;  virtuous,  or  I'll  never 
cheapen  her ;  fair,  or  I'll  never  look  on  her ;  mild,  or 
come  not  near  me  ;  noble,  or  not  I  for  an  angel ;  of 
good  discourse,  an  excellent  musician,  and  her  hair  shall 
be  of  wrhat  color  it  please  God.  Ha !  the  prince  and 
monsieur  Love !  I  will  hide  me  in  the  arbor. 

[Withdraws. 

Enter  DON  PEDRO,  LEONATO,  and  CLAUDIO. 

D.  Pedro.    Come,  shall  w7e  hear  this  music  ? 

Claud.    Yea,  my  good  lord.     How  still  the  even 
ing  is, 
As  hushed  on  purpose  to  grace  harmony ! 

D.  Pedro.    See  you  where  Benedick  hath  hid  himself? 

Claud.  O,  very  well,  my  lord.     The  music  ended, 
We'll  fit  the  kid-fox l  with  a  penny-worth. 


1  Some  editors  have  printed  this  hid-fox ;  and  others  suppose  it  to  mean 
young  or  cub-fox. 


SC.  III.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  451 


Enter  BALTHAZAR,  with  music. 

D.  Pedro.    Come,  Balthazar,  we'll  hear  that  song 
again. 

Balth.    O,  good  my  lord,  tax  not  so  bad  a  voice 
To  slander  music  any  more  than  once. 

D.  Pedro.    It  is  the  witness  still  of  excellency, 
To  put  a  strange  face  on  his  own  perfection : — 
I  pray  thee,  sing,  and  let  me  woo  no  more. 

Balth.    Because  you  talk  of  wooing,  I  will  sing : 
Since  many  a  wooer  doth  commence  his  suit 
To  her  he  thinks  not  worthy ;  yet  he  wooes ; 
Yet  will  he  swear,  he  loves. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  pray  thee,  come : 

Or,  if  thou  wilt  hold  longer  argument, 
Do  it  in  notes. 

Balth.  Note  this  before  my  notes, 

There's  not  a  note  of  mine  that's  worth  the  noting. 

D.  Pedro.    Why  these  are    very  crotchets  that  he 

speaks : 
Note,  notes,  forsooth,  and  noting !  [Music. 

Bene.  Now,  divine  air!  now  is  his  soul  ravished! 
— Is  it  not  strange,  that  sheep's  guts  should  hale  souls 
out  of  men's  bodies  ? — Well,  a  horn  for  my  money, 
when  all's  done. 


BALTHAZAR  sings. 

i. 

Balth.   Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more ; 

Men  were  deceivers  ever  ; 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore ; 
To  one  thing  constant  never  ; 
Then  sigh  not  so, 
But  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny ; 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 


452  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  II 

II. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  mo 
Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ; 

The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so, 
Since  summer  first  icas  leavy : 
Then  sigh  not  so,  &c. 

D.  Pedro.   By  my  troth,  a  good  song. 

Balth.    And  an  ill  singer,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Ha !  No ;  no,  faith  ;  thou  singest  well 
enough  for  a  shift. 

Bern.  [Aside.]  An  he  had  been  a  dog,  that  should 
have  howled  thus,  they  would  have  hanged  him ;  and,  I 
pray  God,  his  bad  voice  bode  no  mischief!  I  had  as 
lief  have  heard  the  night-raven,1  come  what  plague 
could  have  come  after  it. 

D.Pedro.  Yea,  marry.  [To  CLAUDIO.] — Dost  thou 
hear,  Balthazar  ?  1  pray  thee,  get  us  some  excellent 
music ;  for  to-morrow  night  we  would  have  it  at  the 
lady  Hero's  chamber-window. 

Balth.    The  best  I  can,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Do  so ;  farewell.  [Exeunt  BALTHAZAR 
and  music.']  Come  hither,  Leonato.  What  was  it 
you  told  me  of  to-day  ?  that  your  niece  Beatrice  was 
in  love  with  seignior  Benedick  ? 

Claud.  O,  ay. — Stalk  on,  stalk  on ;  the  fowl  sits.9 
[Aside  to  PEDRO.]  I  did  never  think  that  lady  would 
have  loved  any  man. 

Leon.  No,  nor  I  neither;  but  most  wonderful, 
that  she  should  so  dote  on  seignior  Benedick,  whom 
she  hath  in  all  outward  behaviors  seemed  ever  to 
abhor. 

Bene.  Is't  possible  ?  Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner  ? 

[Aside. 

Leon.   By  my  troth,  my  lord,  I  cannot  tell  what  to 

1  i.  e.  the  owl. 

2  This  is  an  allusion  to  the  stalking-horse  ;  a  horse  either  real  or  fac 
titious,  by  which  the  fowler  anciently  screened  himself  from  the  sight  of 
the  game. 


SC.  III.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  453 

think  of  it ;  but  that  she  loves  him  with  an  enraged 
affection, — it  is  past  the  infinite  of  thought. 

/).  Pedro.    May  be,  she  doth  but  counterfeit. 

Claud.    Faith,  like  enough. 

.Leon.  O  God!  Counterfeit!  There  never  was 
counterfeit  of  passion  came  so  near  the  life  of  passion, 
as  she  discovers  it. 

D.  Pedro.    Why,  what  effects  of  passion  shows  she  ? 

Claud.    Bait  the  hook  well ;  this  fish  will  bite. 

[Aside. 

Leon.  What  effects,  my  lord  ?  She  will  sit  you, — 
you  heard  my  daughter  tell  you  how. 

Claud.    She  did,  indeed. 

D.  Pedro.  How,  how,  I  pray  you  ?  You  amaze 
me  ;  I  would  have  thought  her  spirit  had  been  invinci 
ble  against  all  assaults  of  affection. 

Leon.  I  would  have  sworn  it  had,  my  lord ;  es 
pecially  against  Benedick. 

Bene.  [Aside.]  I  should  think  this  a  gull,  but  that 
the  white-bearded  fellow  speaks  it.  Knavery  cannot, 
sure,  hide  itself  in  such  reverence. 

Claud.    He  hath  ta'en  the  infection  ;  hold  it  up. 

[Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Hath  she  made  her  affection  known  to 
Benedick  ? 

Leon.  No ;  and  swears  she  never  will ;  that's  her 
torment. 

Claud.  'Tis  true,  indeed ;  so  your  daughter  says. 
Shall  /,  says  she,  that  have  so  oft  encountered  him  with 
scorn,  write  to  him  that  I  love  him  ! 

Leon.  This  says  she  now  when  she  is  beginning  to 
write  to  him ;  for  she'll  be  up  twenty  times  a  night, 
and  there  will  she  sit  in  her  smock,  till  she  have  writ 
a  sheet  of  paper. — My  daughter  tells  us  all. 

Claud.  Now  you  talk  of  a  sheet  of  paper,  I  re 
member  a  pretty  jest  your  daughter  told  us  of. 

Leon.  O  ! — When  she  had  writ  it,  and  was  reading 
it  over,  she  found  Benedick  and  Beatrice  between 
the  sheet! — 

Claud.    That. 


454  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  II 

Leon.  O  !  she  tore  the  letter  into  a  thousand  half 
pence  ; ]  railed  at  herself,  that  she  should  be  so  im 
modest  to  write  to  one  that  she  knew  would  flout  her. 
/  measure  Mm,  says  she,  by  my  own  spirit ;  for  I  should 
flout  him,  if  he  writ  to  me ;  yea,  though  I  love  him, 
I  should. 

Claud.  Then  down  upon  her  knees  she  falls,  weeps, 
sobs,  beats  her  heart,  tears  her  hair,  prays,  curses ; — 
O  sweet  Benedick !  God  give  me  patience  ! 

Leon.  She  doth  indeed  ;  my  daughter  says  so  :  and 
the  ecstasy  hath  so  much  overborne  her,  that  my 
daughter  is  sometime  afraid  she  will  do  a  desperate 
outrage  to  herself.  It  is  very  true. 

D.  Pedro.  It  were  good,  that  Benedick  knew  of  it 
by  some  other,  if  she  will  not  discover  it. 

Claud.  To  what  end  ?  He  would  but  make  a  sport 
of  it,  and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse. 

D.  Pedro.  An  he  should,  it  were  an  alms  to  hang 
him.  She's  an  excellent  sweet  lady ;  and,  out  of  all 
suspicion,  she  is  virtuous. 

Claud.    And  she  is  exceeding  wise. 

D.  Pedro.    In  every  thing,  but  in  loving  Benedick. 

Leon.  O  my  lord,  wisdom  and  blood 2  combating  in 
so  tender  a  body,  we  have  ten  proofs  to  one,  that  blood 
hath  the  victory.  I  am  sorry  for  her,  as  I  have  just 
cause,  being  her  uncle  and  her  guardian. 

D.  Pedro.  I  would  she  had  bestowed  this  dotage 
on  me :  I  would  have  daffed 3  all  other  respects,  and 
made  her  half  myself.  I  pray  you,  tell  Benedick  of  it, 
and  hear  what  he  will  say. 

Leon.    Were  it  good,  think  you  ? 

Claud.  Hero  thinks  surely  she  will  die ;  for  she 
says,  she  will  die  if  he  love  her  not ;  and  she  will  die 
ere  she  makes  her  love  known ;  and  she  will  die  if  he 
woo  her,  rather  than  she  will  'bate  one  breath  of  her 
accustomed  crossness. 

1  i.  e.  into  a  thousand  small  pieces ;  the  silver  halfpence  were  very  mi«. 
nute  pieces. 

2  i.  e.  passion. 

3  To  dajfis  the  same  as  to  do  off,  to  doff,  to  put  aside. 


SC.  III.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  453 

D.  Pedro.  She  doth  well.  If  she  should  make 
tender  of  her  love,  'tis  very  possible  he'll  scorn  it ;  for 
the  man,  as  you  know  all,  hath  a  contemptible l  spirit. 

Claud.    He  is  a  very  proper  man. 

D.  Pedro.  He  hath,  indeed,  a  good  outward  hap 
piness. 

Claud.    'Fore  God,  and  in  my  mind,  very  wise. 

D.  Pedro.  He  doth,  indeed,  show  some  sparks  that 
are  like  wit. 

Leon.    And  I  take  him  to  be  valiant. 

D.  Pedro.  As  Hector,  I  assure  you :  and  in  the 
managing  of  quarrels  you  may  say  he  is  wise ;  for 
either  he  avoids  them  with  great  discretion,  or  under 
takes  them  with  a  most  Christian-like  fear. 

Leon.  If  he  do  fear  God,  he  must  necessarily  keep 
peace ;  if  he  break  the  peace,  he  ought  to  enter  into 
a  quarrel  with  fear  and  trembling. 

D.  Pedro.  And  so  will  he  do;  for  the  man  doth 
fear  God,  howsoever  it  seems  not  in  him  by  some 
large  jests  he  will  make.  Well,  I  am  sorry  for  your 
niece.  Shall  we  go  see  Benedick,  and  tell  him  of 
her  love  ? 

Claud.  Never  tell  him,  my  lord  ;  let  her  wear  it  out 
with  good  counsel. 

Leon.  Nay,  that's  impossible ;  she  may  wear  her 
heart  out  first. 

D.  Pedro.  Well,  we'll  hear  further  of  it  by  your 
daughter ;  let  it  cool  the  while.  I  love  Benedick 
well ;  and  I  could  wish  he  would  modestly  examine 
himself,  to  see  how  much  he  is  unworthy  to  have  so 
good  a  lady. 

Leon.    My  lord,  will  you  walk  ?     Dinner  is  ready. 

Claud.  If  he  do  not  dote  on  her  upon  this,  I  will 
never  trust  my  expectation.  [Aside. 

D.  Pedro.  Let  there  be  the  same  net  spread  for 
her ;  and  that  must  your  daughter  and  her  gentle 
woman  carry.  The  sport  will  be,  when  they  hold  one 


1  That  is,  a  spirit  inclined  to  scorn  and  contempt.    It  should  be  con 
temptuous. 


456          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [ACT  II. 

an  opinion  of  another's  dotage,  and  no  such  matter; 
that's  the  scene  that  I  would  see,  which  will  be 
merely  a  dumb  show.  Let  us  send  her  to  call  him  in 
to  dinner.  [Aside. 

[Exeunt  DON  PEDRO,  CLAUDIO,  and  LEONATO. 

BENEDICK  advances  from  the  arbor. 

Bene.  This  can  be  no  trick.  The  conference  was 
sadly  borne.1 — They  have  the  truth  of  this  from  Hero. 
They  seem  to  pity  the  lady ;  it  seems,  her  affections 
have  their  full  bent.  Love  me !  Why,  it  must  be 
requited.  I  hear  how  I  am  censured.  They  say,  I 
will  bear  myself  proudly,  if  I  perceive  the  love  come 
from  her ;  they  say,  too,  that  she  will  rather  die  than 
give  any  sign  of  affection. — I  did  never  think  to  marry  ; 
— 1  must  not  seem  proud. — Happy  are  they  that  hear 
their  detractions,  and  can  put  them  to  mending.  They 
say  the  lady  is  fair  ; — 'tis  a  truth  ;  I  can  bear  them  wit 
ness  :  and  virtuous  ; — 'tis  so  ;  I  cannot  reprove  it ;  and 
wrise,  but  for  loving  me. — By  my  troth,  it  is  no  addition 
to  her  wit ; — nor  no  great  argument  of  her  folly,  for  I 
will  be  horribly  in  love  with  her.  I  may  chance  have 
some  odd  quirks  and  remnants  of  wit  broken  on  me, 
because  I  have  railed  so  Jong  against  marriage  ; — but 
doth  not  the  appetite  alter  ?  A  man  loves  the  meat  in 
his  youth  that  he  cannot  endure  in  his  age.  Shall 
quips,  and  sentences,  and  these  paper  bullets  of  the 
brain,  awe  a  man  from  the  career  of  his  humor  ?  No. 
The  world  must  be  peopled.  When  I  said,  I  would 
die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think  I  should  live  till  I  were 
married. — Here  comes  Beatrice.  By  this  day,  she's  a 
fair  lady.  I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

Beat.    Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come 
in  to  dinner. 

Bene.    Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your  pains. 
Beat.    I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks,  than 

1  Seriously  carried  on. 


SC.  I.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.,  457 

you  take  pains  to  thank  me ;  if  it  had  been  painful,  I 
would  not  have  come. 

Bene.    You  take  pleasure  then  in  the  message  ? 

Beat.  Yea,  just  so  much  as  you  may  take  upon  a 
knife's  point,  and  choke  a  daw  withal. — You  have  no 
stomach,  seignior  ;  fare  you  well.  [Exit. 

Bene.  Ha  !  Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you 
come  to  dinner ; — there's  a  double  meaning  in  that. 
I  took  no  more  pains  for  those  thanks  than  you  took 
pains  to  thank  me — that's  as  much  as  to  say,  any  pains 
that  I  take  for  you  is  as  easy  as  thanks. — If  I  do  not 
take  pity  of  her,  I  am  a  villain ;  if  I  do  not  love  her, 
I  am  a  Jew.  I  will  go  get  her  picture.  [Exit. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.     Leonato's  Garden. 

Enter  HERO,  MARGARET,  and  URSULA. 

Hero.    Good  Margaret,  run  thee  into  the  parlor ; 
There  shalt  thou  find  my  cousin  Beatrice, 
Proposing 1  with  the  prince  and  Claudio  : 
Whisper  her  ear,  and  tell  her,  I  and  Ursula 
Walk  in  the  orchard,  and  our  whole  discourse 
Is  all  of  her  ;  say,  that  thou  overheard'st  us  ; 
And  bid  her  steal  into  the  pleached  bower, 
Where  honey-suckles,  ripened  by  the  sun, 
Forbid  the  sun  to  enter ; — like  favorites, 
Made  proud  by  princes,  that  advance  their  pride 
Against  that  power  that  bred  it.   There  will  she  hide  her, 
To  listen  our  propose.2     This  is  thy  orifice; 
Bear  thee  well  in  it,  and  leave  us  alone. 

1  Proposing  is  conversing,  from  the  French  propos,  discourse,  talk. 

2  The  folio  reads  purpose ;  the  quarto  propose,  which  appears  to  be 
right    See  the  preceding  note. 

VOL.  i.  58 


458  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  III 

Marg.    I'll  make  her  come,  1  warrant  you,  presently. 

[Exit. 

Hero.    Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  doth  come, 
As  we  do  trace  this  alley  up  and  down, 
Our  talk  must  only  be  of  Benedick. 
When  I  do  name  him,  let  it  be  thy  part 
To  praise  him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit ; 
My  talk  to  thee  must  be,  how  Benedick 
Is  sick  in  love  with  Beatrice.     Of  this  matter 
Is  little  Cupid's  crafty  arrow  made, 
That  only  wounds  by  hearsay.     Now  begin ; 

Enter  BEATRICE,  behind. 

For  look  where  Beatrice,  like  a  lapwing,  runs 
Close  by  the  ground,  to  hear  our  conference. 

Urs.    The  pleasant'st  angling  is  to  see  the  fish 
Cut  with  their  golden  oars  the  silver  stream, 
And  greedily  devour  the  treacherous  bait. 
So  angle  we  for  Beatrice ;  who  even  now 
Is  couched  in  the  woodbine  coverture. 
Fear  you  not  my  part  of  the  dialogue. 

Hero.    Then    go   we    near   her,  that   her  ear  lose 

nothing 
Of  the  false  sweet  bait,  that  we  lay  for  it. — 

[They  advance  to  the  boiucr 
No,  truly,  Ursula,  she  is  too  disdainful ; 
I  know  her  spirits  are  as  coy  arid  wild 
As  haggards  of  the  rock.1 

Urs.  But  are  you  sure 

That  Benedick  loves  Beatrice  so  entirely  ? 

Hero.    So  says  the  prince,  and  my  new-trothed  lord 

Urs.    And  did  they  bid  you  tell  her  of  it,  madam  ? 

Hero.    They  did  entreat  me  to  acquaint  her  of  it ; 
But  I  persuaded  them,  if  they  loved  Benedick, 
To  wish  him2  wrestle  with  affection, 
And  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it. 

Urs.    Why  did  you  so  ?     Doth  not  the  gentleman 

1  A  hawk  not  trained  to  obedience ;  a  wild  hawk. 

2  Wish  him,  that  is,  recommend  to  or  desire  him. 


SC.  1.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          459 

Deserve  as  full,  as  fortunate  a  bed, 
As  ever  Beatrice  shall  couch  upon  ? 

Hero.    O  God  of  love !  I  know,  he  doth  deserve 
As  much  as  may  be  yielded  to  a  man  ; 
But  nature  never  framed  a  woman's  heart 
Of  prouder  stuff  than  that  of  Beatrice. 
Disdain  and  scorn  ride  sparkling  in  her  eyes, 
Misprising l  what  they  look  on ;  and  her  wit 
Values  itself  so  highly,  that  to  her 
All  matter  else  seems  weak.     She  cannot  love, 
Nor  take  no  shape  nor  project  of  affection, 
She  is  so  self-endeared. 

Urs.    Sure,  I  think  so  ; 
And  therefore,  certainly,  it  were  not  good 
She  knew  his  love,  lest  she  make  sport  at  it. 

Hero.    Why,  you  speak  truth.     I  never  yet  saw  man, 
How  wise,  how  noble,  young,  how  rarely  featured, 
But  she  would  spell  him  backward.2     If  fair-faced, 
She'd  swear  the  gentleman  should  be  her  sister ; 
If  black,  why,  nature,  drawing  of  an  antic, 
Made  a  foul  blot ;  if  tall,  a  lance  ill-headed  ; 
If  low,  an  agate  very  vilely  cut ; 3 
If  speaking,  why,  a  vane  blown  with  all  winds ; 
If  silent,  why,  a  block  moved  with  none. 
So  turns  she  every  man  the  wrong  side  out ; 
And  never  gives  to  truth  and  virtue,  that 
Which  simpleness  and  merit  purchaseth. 

Urs.    Sure,  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable. 

Hero.    No,  nor  to  be  so  odd,  and  from  all  fashions, 
As  Beatrice  is,  cannot  be  commendable. 
But  who  dare  tell  her  so  ?     If  I  should  speak, 
She'd  mock  me  into  air ;  O,  she  would  laugh  me 
Out  of  myself,  press  me  to  death  with  wit. 
Therefore  let  Benedick,  like  covered  fire, 
Consume  away  in  sighs,  waste  inwardly. 

1  Undervaluing. 

2  Alluding  to  the  practice  of  witches  in  uttering  prayers,  i.  e.  misinter 
pret  them. 

3  An  agate  is  often  used  metaphorically  for  a  very  diminutive  person, 
in  allusion  to  the  figures  cut  in  agate  for  rings,  &c. 


460  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  III. 

It  were  a  better  death  than  die  with  mocks ; 
Which  is  as  bad  as  die  with  tickling. 

Urs.    Yet  tell  her  of  it ;  hear  what  she  will  say. 

Hero.    No ;  rather  I  will  go  to  Benedick, 
And  counsel  him  to  fight  against  his  passion. 
And,  truly,  I'll  devise  some  honest  slanders 
To  stain  my  cousin  with ;  one  doth  not  know, 
How  much  an  ill  word  may  empoison  liking. 

Urs.    O,  do  not  do  your  cousin  such  a  wrong. 
She  cannot  be  so  much  without  true  judgment, 
(Having  so  swift  and  excellent  a  wit, 
As  she  is  prized  to  have,)  as  to  refuse 
So  rare  a  gentleman  as  seignior  Benedick. 

Hero.    He  is  the  only  man  of  Italy, 
Always  excepted  my  dear  Claudio. 

Urs.    I  pray  you,  be  not  angry  with  me,  madam, 
Speaking  my  fancy ;  seignior  Benedick, 
For  shape,  for  bearing,  argument,1  and  valor, 
Goes  foremost  in  report  through  Italy. 

Hero.    Indeed,  he  hath  an  excellent  good  name. 

Urs.     His  excellence  did  earn  it,  ere  he  had  it.— 
When  are  you  married,  madam  ? 

Hero.    Why,  everyday  ; — to-morrow.     Come,  go  in  ; 
I'll  show  thee  some  attires ;  arid  have  thy  counsel, 
Which  is  the  best  to  furnish  me  to-morrow. 

Urs.    She's  limed,2  I  warrant  you  ;  we  have  caught 
her,  madam. 

Hero.    If  it  prove  so,  then  loving  goes  by  haps ; 
Some  Cupid  kills  with  arrows,  some  with  traps. 

[Exeunt  HERO  and  URSULA. 

BEATRICE  advances. 

Beat.    What  fire   is  in    mine   ears  ?      Can  this   be 

true  ? 

Stand  I  condemned  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  ? 
Contempt,  farewell !     And  maiden  pride,  adieu ! 
No  glory  lives  behind  the  back  of  such. 

1  i.  e.  discourse,  or  powers  of  reasoning.          9  i.  e.  ensnared. 


SC.  II.J  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  461 

And,  Benedick,  love  on  ;  I  will  requite  thee ; 

Taming  my  wild  heart  to  thy  loving  hand ; l 
If  thou  dost  love,  my  kindness  shall  incite  thee 

To  bind  our  loves  up  in  a  holy  band. 
For  others  say,  thou  dost  deserve ;  and  1 
Believe  it  better  than  reportingly.  [Exit. 


SCENE  II.     A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  DON  PEDRO,  CLAUDIO,  BENEDICK,  and  LEONATO. 

D.  Pedro.  I  do  but  stay  till  your  marriage  be  con 
summate,  and  then  I  go  toward  Arragon. 

Claud.  I'll  bring  you  thither,  my  lord,  if  you'll 
vouchsafe  me. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  that  would  be  as  great  a  soil  in  the 
new  gloss  of  your  marriage,  as  to  show  a  child  his  new 
coat,  and  forbid  him  to  wear  it.  I  will  only  be  bold 
with  Benedick  for  his  company ;  for,  from  the  crown 
of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  he  is  all  mirth ;  he 
hath  twice  or  thrice  cut  Cupid's  bow-string,  and  the 
little  hangman 2  dare  not  shoot  at  him.  He  hath  a  heart 
as  sound  as  a  bell,  and  his  tongue  is  the  clapper ;  for 
what  his  heart  thinks,  his  tongue  speaks. 

Bene.    Gallants,  I  am  not  as  I  have  been. 

Leon.    So  say  I ;  methinks  you  are  sadder. 

Claud.    I  hope  he  be  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  Hang  him,  truant ;  there's  no  true  drop 
of  blood  in  him,  to  be  truly  touched  with  love.  If  he 
be  sad,  he  wants  money. 

Bene.    I  have  the  toothache. 

D.  Pedro.    Draw  it. 

Bene.    Hang  it ! 

Claud.  You  must  hang  it  first,  and  draw  it  after 
wards. 

D.  Pedro.    What,  sigh  for  the  toothache  ? 

1  This  image  is  taken  from  falconry. 

2  Sir  Philip  Sidney  also  applies  the  name  hangman  to  Cupid,  in  the 
sense  of  destroyer  or  executioner. 


462  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  III. 

Leon.    Where  is  but  a  humor,  or  a  worm  ? 

Bene.  Well,  every  one  can  master  a  grief,  but  he 
that  has  it. 

Claud.    Yet  say  I,  he  is  in  love. 

D.  Pedro.  There  is  no  appearance  of  fancy1  in 
him,  unless  it  be  a  fancy  that  he  hath  to  strange  dis 
guises  ;  as,  to  be  a  Dutchman  to-day ;  a  Frenchman 
to-morrow  ;  or  in  the  shape  of  two  countries  at  once  ; a 
as,  a  German  from  the  waist  downward,  all  slops ; 3 
and  a  Spaniard  from  the  hip  upward,  no  doublet. 
Unless  he  have  a  fancy  to  this  foolery,  as  it  appears 
he  hath,  he  is  no  fool  for  fancy,  as  you  would  have  it 
appear  he  is. 

Claud.  If  he  be  not  in  love  with  some  woman, 
there  is  no  believing  old  signs.  He  brushes  his  hat 
o'  mornings  ;  what  should  that  bode  ? 

D.  Pedro.    Hath  any  man  seen  him  at  the  barber's  ? 

Claud.  No,  but  the  barber's  man  hath  been  seen 
with  him;  and  the  old  ornament  of  his  cheek  hath 
already  stuffed  tennis-balls. 

Leon.  Indeed,  he  looks  younger  than  he  did,  by  the 
loss  of  a  beard. 

D.  Pedro.  Nay,  he  rubs  himself  with  civet ;  can 
you  smell  him  out  by  that  ? 

Claud.  That's  as  much  as  to  say,  the  sweet  youth's 
in  love. 

D.  Pedro.    The  greatest  note  of  it  is  his  melancholy. 

Claud.    And  when  was  he  wont  to  wash  his  face  ? 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  or  to  paint  himself?  for  the  which, 
I  hear  what  they  say  of  him. 


1  A  play  upon  the  word  fancy,  which  Shakspoare  uses  for  love,  as  well 
as  for  humor,  caprice,,  or  affectation. 

2  So,  in  The  Seven  deadly  Sinnes  of  London,  by  Decker,  1006,  "  For 
an   Englishman's  sute  is  like  a  traitor's  body  that  hath  beene  handed, 
drawne,  and  quartered,  and  is  set  up  in  several  places:  his  codpiece,  in 
Denmarke  ;  the  collar  of  his  dublet  and  the  belly,  in  France;  the  wing 
nnd  narrow  sleeve,  in  Italy;  the  short  waste  hangs  over  a  botcher's  stall 
in  Utrich ;  his  huge  sloppes  speaks   Spanish ;    Polonia    gives   him   the 
boot.es,  &c. — and  thus  we  niocke  everie  nation  for  keeping  one  fashion, 
yet  steale  patches  from  everie  of  them  to  piece  out  our  pride  ;  and  are  now 
laughing-stocks  to  them,  because  their  cut  so  scurvily  becomes  us." 

3  Large,  loose  breeches  or  trowsers. 


SC.  II.]  MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  463 

Claud.  Nay,  but  his  jesting  spirit;  which  is  now 
crept  into  a  lute-string,1  and  now  governed  by  stops. 

D.  Pedro.  Indeed,  that  tells  a  heavy  tale  for  him. 
Conclude,  conclude,  he  is  in  love. 

Claud.    Nay,  but  1  know  who  loves  him. 

D.  Pedro.  That  would  I  know  too ;  I  warrant,  one 
that  knows  him  not. 

Claud.  Yes,  and  his  ill  conditions;  and,  in  despite 
of  all,  dies  for  him. 

D.  Pedro.  She  shall  be  buried  with  her  face  up 
wards. 

Bene.  Yet  is  this  no  charm  for  the  toothache. — 
Old  seignior,  walk  aside  with  me.  I  have  studied 
eight  or  nine  wise  words  to  speak  to  you,  which  these 
hobby-horses  must  not  hear. 

[Exeunt  BENEDICK  and  LEONATO. 

D.  Pedro.  For  my  life,  to  break  with  him  about 
Beatrice. 

Claud.  'Tis  even  so.  Hero  and  Margaret  have 
by  this  played  their  parts  with  Beatrice;  and  then 
the  Cwo  bears  will  not  bite  one  another  when  they 
meet. 

Enter  DON  JOHN. 

D.  John.    My  lord  and  brother,  God  save  you. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  den,  brother. 

D.  John.  If  your  leisure  served,  I  would  speak 
with  you. 

D.  Pedro.    In  private  ? 

D.  John.  If  it  please  you.  Yet  count  Claudio  may 
hear  ;  for  what  I  would  speak  of  concerns  him. 

D.  Pedro.    What's  the  matter  ? 

D.  John.  Means  your  lordship  to  be  married  to 
morrow  ?  [To  CLAUDIO. 

D.  Pedro.  You  know  he  does. 

D.  John.  I  know  not  that,  when  he  knows  what 
1  know. 

Claud.  If  there  be  any  impediment,  I  pray  you, 
discover  it. 

1  Love-songs,  in  Shakspeare's  time,  were  sung  to  the  lute. 


464  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  III 

D.  John.  You  may  think  1  love  you  not ;  let  that 
appear  hereafter,  and  aim  better  at  me  by  that  I  now 
will  manifest.  For  my  brother,  1  think  he  holds  you 
well ;  and  in  clearness  of  heart  hath  holp  to  effect  your 
ensuing  marriage ;  surely,  suit  ill  spent,  and  labor 
ill  bestowed ! 

D.  Pedro.    Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

D.  John.  1  came  hither  to  tell  you ;  and,  circum 
stances  shortened,  (for  she  hath  been  too  long  a  talking 
of,)  the  lady  is  disloyal. 

Claud.   Who?     Hero? 

D.  John.  Even  she ;  Leonato's  Hero,  your  Hero, 
every  man's  Hero. 

Claud.    Disloyal  ? 

D.  John.  The  word  is  too  good  to  paint  out  her 
wickedness.  I  could  say,  she  were  worse  ;  think  you 
of  a  worse  title,  and  I  will  fit  her  to  it.  Wonder  not 
till  further  warrant.  Go  but  with  me  to-night,  you 
shall  see  her  chamber- window  entered  ;  even  the  night 
before  her  wedding-day.  If  you  love  her  then,  to 
morrow  wed  her :  but  it  would  better  fit  your  honor  to 
change  your  mind. 

Claud.    May  this  be  so  ? 

D.  Pedro.    I  will  not  think  it. 

D.  John.  If  you  dare  not  trust  that  you  see,  con 
fess  not  that  you  know.  If  you  will  follow  me,  I  will 
show  you  enough ;  and  when  you  have  seen  more,  and 
heard  more,  proceed  accordingly. 

Claud.  If  I  see  any  thing  to-night  why  I  should 
not  marry  her  to-morrow,  in  the  congregation,  where 
I  should  wed,  there  will  I  shame  her. 

D.  Pedro.  And  as  I  wooed  for  thee  to  obtain  her, 
I  will  join  with  thee  to  disgrace  her. 

.D.  John.  I  will  disparage  her  no  further,  till  you 
are  my  witnesses.  Bear  it  coldly  but  till  midnight, 
and  let  the  issue  show  itself. 

D.  Pedro.    O  day  untovvarclly  turned  ! 

Claud.    O  mischief  strangely  thwarting ! 

D.  John.    O  plague  right  well  prevented  ! 
So  will  you  say,  when  you  have  seen  the  sequel. 

[Exeunt. 


SC.  III.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  465 


SCENE  III.     A  Street. 

Enter  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES,1  with  the  Watch. 

Dogb.    Are  you  good  men  and  true  ? 

Verg.  Yea,  or  else  it  were  pity  but  they  should 
suffer  salvation,  body  and  soul. 

Dogb.  Nay,  that  were  a  punishment  too  good  for 
them,  if  they  should  have  any  allegiance  in  them, 
being  chosen  for  the  prince's  watch. 

Verg.  Well,  give  them  their  charge,  neighbor 
Dogberry. 

Dogb.  First,  who  think  you  the  most  desertless 
man  to  be  constable  ? 

1  Watch.    Hugh  Oatcake,  sir,  or  George  Seacoal ; 
for  they  can  write  and  read. 

Dogb.  Come  hither,  neighbor  Seacoal.  God  hath 
blessed  you  with  a  good  name.  To  be  a  well-favored 
man  is  the  gift  of  fortune ;  but  to  write  and  read 
comes  by  nature. 

2  Watch.   Both  which,  master  constable, 

Dogb.    You  have  ;  I  knew  it  would  be  your  answer. 

Well,  for  your  favor,  sir,  why,  give  God  thanks,  and 
make  no  boast  of  it ;  and  for  your  writing  and  reading, 
let  that  appear  when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity. 
You  are  thought  here  to  be  the  most  senseless  and  fit 
man  for  the  constable  of  the  watch ;  therefore  bear 
you  the  lantern.  This  is  your  charge.  You  shall 
comprehend  all  vagrom  men ;  you  are  to  bid  any  man 
stand,  in  the  prince's  name. 

2   Watch.    How  if  he  will  not  stand  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  take  no  note  of  him,  but  let  him 
go ;  and  presently  call  the  rest  of  the  watch  together, 
and  thank  God  you  are  rid  of  a  knave. 

Verg.  If  he  will  not  stand  when  he  is  bidden,  he  is 
none  of  the  prince's  subjects. 

1  The  first  of  these  worthies  is  named  from  the  Dog-beiry  or  female 
cornel,  a  shrub  that  grows  in  every  county  in  England.     Verges  is  only 
the  provincial  pronunciation  of  verjuice. 
VOL.  i.  59 


466  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  III. 

Dogb.  True,  and  they  are  to  meddle  with  none  but 
the  prince's  subjects. — You  shall  also  make  no  noise  in 
the  streets ;  for,  for  the  watch  to  babble  and  talk,  is 
most  tolerable  and  not  to  be  endured. 

2  Watch.  We  will  rather  sleep  than  talk  ;  we  know 
what  belongs  to  a  watch. 

Dogb.  Why,  you  speak  like  an  ancient  and  most 
quiet  watchman  ;  for  I  cannot  see  how  sleeping  should 
offend  ;  only,  have  a  care  that  your  bills  *  be  not  stolen. 
— Well,  you  are  to  call  at  all  the  ale-houses,  and  bid 
those  that  are  drunk  get  them  to  bed. 

2   Watch.    How  if  they  will  not  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  let  them  alone  till  they  are  sober  ; 
if  they  make  you  not  then  the  better  answer,  you  may 
say,  they  are  not  the  men  you  took  them  for. 

2  Watch.   Well,  sir. 

Dogb.  If  you  meet  a  thief,  you  may  suspect  him, 
by  virtue  of  your  office,  to  be  no  true  man ;  and,  for 
such  kind  of  men,  the  less  you  meddle  or  make  with 
them,  why,  the  more  is  for  your  honesty. 

2  Watch.  If  we  know  him  to  be  a  thief,  shall  we 
not  lay  hands  on  him  ? 

Dogb.  Truly,  by  your  office,  you  may ;  but  I  think, 
they  that  touch  pitch  will  be  defiled.  The  most 
peaceable  way  for  you,  if  you  do  take  a  thief,  is,  to 
let  him  show  himself  what  he  is,  and  steal  out  of 
your  company. 

Verg.  You  have  been  always  called  a  merciful 
man,  partner. 

Dogb.  Truly,  I  would  not  hang  a  dog  by  my  will ; 
much  more  a  man,  who  hath  any  honesty  in  him. 

Verg.  If  you  hear  a  child  cry  in  the  night,  you 
must  call  to  the  nurse,  and  bid  her  still  it. 

2  Watch.  How  if  the  nurse  be  asleep,  and  will  not 
hear  us  ? 

Dogb.  Why,  then,  depart  in  peace,  and  let  the  child 
wake  her  with  crying ;  for  the  ewe  that  will  not  hear 

1  A  halberd  or  species  of  axe,  once  the  weapon  of  the  English  infantry. 
Johnson  observes  that  it  was  carried  in  his  time  by  the  watchmen  of 
Litchfield. 


SC.  III.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  467 

her  lamb  when  it  baas,  will  never  answer  a  calf  when 
he  bleats. 

Verg.    'Tis  very  true. 

Dogb.  This  is  the  end  of  the  charge.1  You,  con 
stable,  are  to  present  the  prince's  own  person  ;  if  you 
meet  the  prince  in  the  night,  you  may  stay  him. 

Verg.    Nay,  by'r  lady,  that,  I  think,  he  cannot. 

Dogb.  Five  shillings  to  one  on't,  with  any  man  that 
knows  the  statutes,  he  may  stay  him.  Marry,  not 
without  the  prince  be  willing ;  for,  indeed,  the  watch 
ought  to  offend  no  man ;  and  it  is  an  offence  to  stay  a 
man  against  his  will. 

Verg.    By'r  lady,  I  think  it  be  so. 

Dogb.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well,  masters,  good  night. 
An  there  be  any  matter  of  weight  chances,  call  up 
me ;  keep  your  fellows'  counsels  and  your  own,  and 
good  night. — Come,  neighbor. 

2  Watch.  Well,  masters,  we  hear  our  charge.  Let 
us  go  sit  here  upon  the  church-bench  till  two,  and  then 
all  to  bed. 

Dogb.  One  word  more,  honest  neighbors.  I  pray 
you,  watch  about  seignior  Leonato's  door;  for  the 
wedding  being  there  to-morrow,  there  is  a  great  coil 
to-night.  Adieu  ;  be  vigilant,  I  beseech  you. 

[Exeunt  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES. 

Enter  BORACHIO  and  CONRADE. 

Bora.   What!  Conrade, — 

Watch.  Peace  ;  stir  not.  [Aside. 

Bora.    Conrade,  I  say  ! 

Con.    Here,  man,  I  am  at  thy  elbow. 

Bora.  Mass,  and  my  elbow  itched ;  I  thought  there 
would  a  scab  follow. 

Con.  I  will  owe  thee  an  answer  for  that ;  and  now 
forward  with  thy  tale. 

Bora.    Stand  thee  close  then  under  this  pent-house, 


1  This  charge  is  evidently  intended  as  a  satire  upon  the  police  regu 
lations  of  London,  entitled,  Statutes  of  the  Streets. 


468          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.      [ACT  III. 

for  it  drizzles  rain ;  and  I  will,  like  a  true  drunkard, 
utter  all  to  thee. 

Watch.  [Aside.'}  Some  treason,  masters ;  yet  stand 
close. 

Bora.  Therefore  know,  I  have  earned  of  don  John 
a  thousand  ducats. 

Con.  Is  it  possible  that  any  villany  should  be  so 
dear  ? 

Bora.  Thou  shouldst  rather  ask,  if  it  were  possible 
any  villany  should  be  so  rich ;  for  when  rich  villains 
have  need  of  poor  ones,  poor  ones  may  make  what  price 
they  will. 

Con.    I  wonder  at  it. 

Bora.  That  shows  thou  art  unconfirmed.1  Thou 
knowest,  that  the  fashion  of  a  doublet,  or  a  hat,  or  a 
cloak,  is  nothing  to  a  man. 

Con.    Yes,  it  is  apparel. 

Bora.    I  mean,  the  fashion. 

Con.    Yes,  the  fashion  is  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Tush !  I  may  as  well  say,  the  fool's  the 
fool.  But  seest  thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this 
fashion  is  ? 

fVatch.  I  know  that  Deformed ;  he  has  been  a  vile 
thief  this  seven  year;  he  goes  up  and  down  like  a 
gentleman.  I  remember  his  name. 

Bora.    Didst  thou  not  hear  somebody  ? 

Con.    No ;  'twas  the  vane  on  the  house. 

Bora.  Seest  thou  not,  I  say,  what  a  deformed  thief 
this  fashion  is  ?  How  giddily  he  turns  about  all  the 
hot  bloods,  between  fourteen  and  five-and-thirty ! 
sometime,  fashioning  them  like  Pharaoh's  soldiers  in 
tin;  reechy2  painting;  sometime,  like  god  Bel's  priests 
in  the  old  church  window  ;  sometime  like  the  shaven 
Hercules  in  the  smirched3  worm-eaten  tapestry,  where 
his  cod-piece  seems  as  massy  as  his  club  ? 

Con.  All  this  I  see  ;  and  see,  that  the  fashion  wears 
out  more  apparel  than  the  man.  But  art  not  thou 

1  Unpractised  in  the  ways  of  the  world. 

9  i.  e.  discolored  by  smoke,  reeky.     From  recan,  Saxon. 

3  Soiled,  sullied.     Probably  only  another  form  of  smutched. 


SC.  III.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  469 

thyself  giddy  with  the  fashion  too,  that  thou  hasl 
shifted  out  of  thy  tale  into  telling  me  of  the  fashion. 

Bora.  Not  so  neither.  But  know,  that  I  have  to 
night  wooed  Margaret,  the  lady  Hero's  gentlewoman, 
by  the  name  of  Hero ;  she  leans  me  out  at  her  mis 
tress's  chamber-window,  bids  me  a  thousand  times  good 
night, — I  tell  this  tale  vilely. — I  should  first  tell  thee 
how  the  prince,  Claudio,  and  my  master,  planted,  and 
placed,  and  possessed  by  my  master  don  John,  saw 
afar  off,  in  the  orchard,  this  amiable  encounter. 

Con.    And  thought  they  Margaret  was  Hero  ? 

Bora  Two  of  them  did,  the  prince  and  Claudio; 
but  the  devil,  my  master,  knew  she  was  Margaret ;  and 
partly  by  his  oaths,  which  first  possessed  them,  partly 
by  the  dark  night,  which  did  deceive  them,  but  chiefly 
by  my  villany,  which  did  confirm  any  slander  that  don 
John  had  made,  away  went  Claudio  enraged ;  swore 
he  would  meet  her,  as  he  was  appointed,  next  morning 
at  the  temple,  and  there,  before  the  whole  congregation, 
shame  her  with  what  he  saw  over-night,  and  send  her 
home  again  Avithout  a  husband. 

1  Watch.   We  charge  you  in  the  prince's  name,  stand. 

2  Watch.    Call  up  the  right  master  constable.     We 
have    here    recovered    the    most    dangerous    piece   of 
lechery  that  ever  was  known  in  the  commonwealth. 

1  Watch.    And  one  Deformed  is  one  of  them ;  I 
know  him  ;  he  wears  a  lock. 

Con.    Masters,  masters, — 

2  Watch.    You'll    be  made    bring  Deformed  forth, 
I  warrant  you. 

Con.    Masters, — 

1  Watch.  Never  speak ;  we  charge  you,  let  us  obey 
you  to  go  with  us. 

Bora.  We  are  like  to  prove  a  goodly  commodity, 
being  taken  up  of  these  men's  bills.1 

Con.  A  commodity  in  question,2  I  warrant  you. 
Come,  we'll  obey  you.  [Exeunt. 

1  A  quibble  upon  the  word  bill,  which  was  sometimes  used  in  the  sense 
of  bond. 

2  i.  e.  in  examination  or'trial. 


470  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  III. 


SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  HERO,  MARGARET,  and  URSULA. 

Hero.  Good  Ursula,  wake  my  cousin  Beatrice,  and 
desire  her  to  rise. 

Urs.    I  will,  lady. 

Hero.    And  bid  her  come  hither. 

Urs.    Well.  [Exit  URSULA. 

Marg.    Troth,  I  think  your  other  rabato i  were  better. 

Hero.    No,  pray  thee,  good  Meg,  I'll  wear  this. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it's  not  so  good ;  and  I  war 
rant,  your  cousin  will  say  so. 

Hero.  My  cousin's  a  fool,  and  thou  art  another  ;  I'll 
wear  none  but  this. 

Marg.  I  like  the  new  tire2  within  excellently,  if  the 
hair  were  a  thought  browner ;  and  your  gown's  a  most 
rare  fashion,  i'faith.  I  saw  the  duchess  of  Milan's 
gown,  that  they  praise  so. 

Hero.    O,  that  exceeds,  they  say. 

Marg.  By  my  troth,  it's  but  a  night-gown  in  respect 
of  yours — cloth  of  gold,  and  cuts,  and  laced  with  sil 
ver  ;  set  with  pearls,  down-sleeves,  side-sleeves,3  and 
skirts  round,  underborne  with  a  bluish  tinsel ;  but  for 
a  fine,  quaint,  graceful,  and  excellent  fashion,  yours  is 
worth  ten  on't. 

Hero.  God  give  me  joy  to  wear  it,  for  my  heart  is 
exceeding  heavy ! 

Mare.    'Twill  be  heavier  soon   by  the  weight  of  a 

o  J 

man. 

Hero.    Fie  upon  thee  !     Art  not  ashamed  ? 

Marg.  Of  what,  lady  ?  Of  speaking  honorably  ? 
Is  not  "marriage  honorable  in  a  beggar  ?  Is  not  your 
lord  honorable  without  marriage  ?  I  think  you  would 
have  me  say,  saving  your  reverence, — a  husband.  An 

i  A  land  of  ruff;  rabat  (Fr.).  2  Head-dress. 

3  i.  e.  long  sleeves.  Side  or  syde  in  North  Britain  is  used  for  long,  when 
applied  to  the  garment.  It  has  the  same  signification  in  Anglo-Saxon 
and  Danish. 


SC.  IV.]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          471 

bad  thinking  do  not  wrest  true  speaking,  I'll  offend 
nobody.  Is  there  any  harm  in — the  heavier  for  a  hus 
band?  None,  1  think,  an  it  be  the  right  husband,  and 
the  right  wife ;  otherwise  'tis  light,  and  not  heavy. 
Ask  my  lady  Beatrice  else  ;  here  she  comes. 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

Hero.    Good  morrow,  coz. 

Beat.    Good  morrow,  sweet  Hero. 

Hero.  Why,  how  now!  do  you  speak  in  the  sick 
tune  ? 

Beat.    1  am  out  of  all  other  tune,  methinks. 

Marg.  Clap  us  into — Light  o'  love  ;  that  goes  with 
out  burden ;  do  you  sing  it,  and  I'll  dance  it. 

Beat.  Yea,  Light  o'  love,1  with  your  heels  ! — Then 
if  your  husband  have  stables  enough,  you'll  see  he  shall 
lack  no  barns.2 

Marg.  O  illegitimate  construction !  I  scorn  that 
with  my  heels. 

Beat.  'Tis  almost  five  o'clock,  cousin :  'tis  time 
you  were  ready.  By  mv  troth,  I  am  exceeding  ill. — 
Hey  ho ! 

Marg.    For  a  hawk,  a  horse,  or  a  husband  ? 

Beat.    For  the  letter  that  begins  them  all,  H.3 

Marg.  Well,  an  you  be  not  turned  Turk,  there's  no 
more  sailing  by  the  star. 

Beat.    What  means  the  fool,  trow  ? 4 

Marg.  Nothing  I ;  but  God  send  every  one  their 
heart's  desire ! 

Hero.  These  gloves  the  count  sent  me  ;  they  are  an 
excellent  perfume. 

Beat.    1  am  stuffed,  cousin  ;    I  cannot  smell. 

Marg.  A  maid,  and  stuffed  !  There's  goodly  catch 
ing  of  cold. 

1  The  name  of  a  popular  old  dance  tune. 

2  A  quibble  between  barns,  repositories  for  corn,  and  bairns,  children, 
formerly  pronounced  barns. 

3  That  is,  for  an  ache  or  pain,  pronounced  aitch. 

4  This  obsolete  exclamation  of  inquiry  is  a  contraction  of  trow  ye  ? 
think  you  ?  believe  you  ? 


472  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  III. 

Beat.  O,  God  help  me  !  God  help  me  !  How  long 
have  you  professed  apprehension  ? 

Marg.  Ever  since  you  left  it.  Doth  not  my  wit 
become  me  rarely  t 

Beat.  It  is  not  seen  enough  ;  you  should  wear  it  in 
your  cap. — By  my  troth,  I  am  sick. 

Marg.  Get  you  some  of  this  distilled  Carduus  Ben 
edictus,1  and  lay  it  to  your  heart ;  it  is  the  only  thing 
for  a  qualm. 

Hero.    There  thou  prick 'st  her  with  a  thistle. 

Beat.  Benedictus !  Why  Benedictus  ?  You  have 
some  moral  in  this  Benedictus. 

Marg.  Moral  ?  no,  by  my  troth,  I  have  no  moral 
meaning  ;  I  meant,  plain  holy-thistle.  You  may  think, 
perchance,  that  I  think  you  are  in  love.  Nay,  by'r 
lady,  I  am  not  such  a  fool  to  think  what  I  list ;  nor  I 
list  not  to  think  what  I  can ;  nor,  indeed,  I  cannot 
think,  if  I  would  think  my  heart  out  of  thinking,  that 
you  are  in  love,  or  that  you  will  be  in  love,  or  that  you 
can  be  in  love.  Yet  Benedick  was  such  another,  and 
now  is  he  become  a  man.  He  swore  he  would  never 
marry ;  and  yet  now,  in  despite  of  his  heart,  he  eats 
his  meat  without  grudging  : 2  and  how  you  may  be  con 
verted,  I  know  not ;  but  methinks  you  look  with  your 
eyes  as  other  women  do. 

Beat.    What  pace  is  this  that  thy  tongue  keeps  ? 

Marg.    Not  a  false  gallop. 

Re-enter  URSULA. 

Urs.  Madam,  withdraw ;  the  prince,  the  count, 
seignior  Benedick,  don  John,  and  all  the  gallants  of 
the  town,  are  come  to  fetch  you  to  church. 

Hero.  Help  to  dress  me,  good  coz,  good  Meg,  good 
Ursula.  [Exeunt. 

1  "  Carduus  Benedictus,  or  blessed  thistle  (says  Cogan  in  his  Haven  of 
Health,  1595),  so  worthily  named  for  the  singular  virtues  that  it  hath." 

2  i.  e.  "feeds  on  love,  and  likes  his  food." 


SC.  V.]  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  473 


SCENE  V.     Another  Room  in  Leonato's  House. 


Enter  LEONATO,  with  DOGBERRY  and  VERGES. 

Leon.    What  would  you  with  me,  honest  neighbor  ? 

Dogb.  Marry,  sir,  I  would  have  some  confidence 
with  you,  that  decerns  you  nearly. 

Leon.  Brief,  I  pray  you ;  for  you  see,  'tis  a  busy 
time  with  me. 

Dogb.    Marry,  this  it  is,  sir. 

Verg.    Yes,  in  truth  it  is,  sir. 

Leon.    What  is  it,  my  good  friends  ? 

Dogb.  Goodman  Verges,  sir,  speaks  a  little  off  the 
matter — an  old  man,  sir,  and  his  wits  are  not  so 
blunt,  as,  God  help,  I  would  desire  they  were ;  but,  in 
faith,  honest  as  the  skin  between  his  brows. 

Verg.  Yes,  I  thank  God,  I  am  as  honest  as  any 
man  living,  that  is  an  old  man  and  no  honester  than  I. 

Dogb.  Comparisons  are  odorous  ;  palabras,1  neigh 
bor  Verges. 

Leon.    Neighbors,  you  are  tedious. 

Dogb.  It  pleases  your  worship  to  say  so,  but  we  are 
the  poor  duke's  officers ;  but,  truly,  for  mine  own  part, 
if  I  were  as  tedious  as  a  king,  I  could  find  in  my 
heart  to  bestow  it  all  of  your  worship. 

Leon.    All  thy  tediousness  on  me  !  ha  ! 

Dogb.  Yea,  and  'twere  a  thousand  times  more  than 
'tis ;  for  I  hear  as  good  exclamation  on  your  worship, 
as  of  any  man  in  the  city ;  and  though  I  be  but  a  poor 
man,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 

Verg.    And  so  am  I. 

Leon.    I  would  fain  know  what  you  have  to  say. 

Verg.  Marry,  sir,  our  watch  to-night,  excepting 
your  worship's  presence,  have  ta'en  a  couple  of  as  ar 
rant  knaves  as  any  in  Messina. 

1  i.  e.  words >  in  Spanish.    It  seems  to  have  been  current  here  for  a 
time,  even  among  the  vulgar ;  it  was  probably  introduced  by  our  sailors, 
as  well  as  the  corrupted  form  pala'ver. 
VOL.  i.  60 


474  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  III 

Dogb.  A  good  old  man,  sir ;  he  will  be  talking ;  as 
they  say,  When  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is  out ;  God  help 
us  !  It  is  a  world  to  see  ! l — Well  said,  i'faith,  neigh 
bor  Verges : — well,  God's  a  good  man  ;  an  two  men 
ride  of  a  horse,  one  must  ride  behind. — An  honest 
soul,  i'faith,  sir  ;  by  my  troth,  he  is,  as  ever  broke  bread  ; 
but  God  is  to  be  worshipped.  All  men  are  not  alike  ; 
alas  !  good  neighbor  ! 

Leon.    Indeed,  neighbor,  he  comes  too  short  of  you. 

Dogb.    Gifts,  that  God  gives. 

Leon.    I  must  leave  you. 

Dogb.  One  word,  sir.  Our  watch,  sir,  have,  in 
deed,  comprehended  two  aspicious  persons,  and  we 
would  have  them  this  morning  examined  before  your 
worship. 

Leon.  Take  their  examination  yourself,  and  bring 
it  me ;  I  am  now  in  great  haste,  as  it  may  appear 
unto  you. 

Dogb.    It  shall  be  suffigance. 

Leon.    Drink  some  wine  ere  you  go ;  fare  you  well. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  they  stay  for  you  to  give  your 
daughter  to  her  husband. 

Leon.    I  will  wait  upon  them ;  I  am  ready. 

[Exeunt  LEONATO  and  Messenger. 

Dogb.  Go,  good  partner,  go,  get  you  to  Francis 
Seacoal,  bid  him  bring  his  pen  and  inkhorn  to  the 
gaol ;  we  are  now  to  examination  these  men. 

Verg.    And  we  must  do  it  wisely. 

Dogb.  We  will  spare  for  no  wit,  I  warrant  you , 
here's  that  [touching  his  forehead]  shall  drive  some 
of  them  to  a  non  com.  Only  get  the  learned  writer  to 
set  down  our  excommunication,  and  meet  me  at  the 
gaol.  [Exeunt. 

1  This  was  a  common  apostrophe  of  admiration. 


SC.  I.I  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  475 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.     The  Inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter    DON    PEDRO,    DON    JOHN,    LEONATO,    Friar, 
CLAUDIO,  BENEDICK,  HERO,  and  BEATRICE,  &c. 

Leon.  Come,  friar  Francis,  be  brief;  only  to  the 
plain  form  of  marriage,  and  you  shall  recount  their  par 
ticular  duties  afterwards. 

Friar.  You  come  hither,  my  lord,  to  marry  this 
lady  ? 

Claud.   No. 

Leon.  To  be  married  to  her,  friar ;  you  come  to 
marry  her. 

Friar.  Lady,  you  come  hither  to  be  married  to  this 
count. 

Hero.    1  do. 

Friar.  If  either  of  you  know  any  inward  impedi 
ment  why  you  should  not  be  conjoined,  I  charge  you, 
on  your  souls,  to  utter  it. 

Claud.    Know  you  any,  Hero  ? 

Hero.    None,  my  lord. 

Friar.    Know  you  any,  count  ? 

Leon.    I  dare  make  his  answer ;  none. 

Claud.  O,  what  men  dare  do !  What  men  may 
do  !  What  men  daily  do,  not  knowing  what  they  do  ! 

Bene.  How  now!  Interjections?  Why,  then  some 
be  of  laughing,  as,  ha !  ha !  he  ! 

Claud.    Stand    thee    by,    friar. — Father,    by   your 

leave ! 

Will  you  with  free  and  unconstrained  soul 
Give  me  this  maid,  your  daughter? 

Leon.    As  freely,  son,  as  God  did  give  her  me. 

Claud.    And  what  have  I  to  give  you  back,  whose 

worth 
May  counterpoise  this  rich  and  precious  gift  ? 

D.  Pedro.    Nothing,  unless  you  render  her  again. 


476          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.      [ACT  IV. 

Claud.    Sweet  prince,  you  learn  me  noble  thank 
fulness. — 

There,  Leonato,  take  her  back  again. 
Give  not  this  rotten  orange  to  your  friend  : 
She's  but  the  sign  and  semblance  of  her  honor. 
Behold,  how  like  a  maid  she  blushes  here. 
O,  what  authority  and  show  of  truth 
Can  cunning  sin  cover  itself  withal ! 
Comes  not  that  blood,  as  modest  evidence, 
To  witness  simple  virtue  ?     Would  you  not  swear, 
All  you  that  see  her,  that  she  were  a  maid, 
By  these  exterior  shows  ? — But  she  is  none. 
She  knows  the  heat  of  a  luxurious 1  bed  ; 
Her  blush  is  guiltiness,  not  modesty. 

Leon.    What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.  Not  to  be  married, 

Not  knit  my  soul  to  an  approved  wanton. 

Leon.    Dear  my  lord,  if  you,  in  your  own  proof 
Have  vanquished  the  resistance  of  her  youth, 
And  made  defeat  of  her  virginity, 

Claud.    I  know  what  you  would  say.     If  I  have 

known  her, 

You'll  say  she  did  embrace  me  as  a  husband, 
And  so  extenuate  the  'forehand  sin. 
No,  Leonato, 

I  never  tempted  her  with  word  too  large  ;2 
But,  as  a  brother  to  his  sister,  showed 
Bashful  sincerity  and  comely  love. 

Hero.    And  seemed  I  ever  otherwise  to  you  ? 

Claud.    Out  on  thy  seeming  !  I  will  write  against  it. 
You  seem  to  me  as  Dian  in  her  orb ; 
As  chaste  as  is  the  bud  ere  it  be  blown ; 
But  you  are  more  intemperate  in  your  blood 
Than  Venus,  or  those  pampered  animals 
That  rage  in  savage  sensuality. 

Hero.    Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  doth  speak  so  wide  ? 

Leon.    Sweet  prince,  why  speak  not  you  ? 

D.  Pedro.  What  should  I  speak  ? 

1  Lascivious.  2  Licentious. 


SO.  I.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          477 

I  stand  dishonored,  that  have  gone  about 
To  link  my  dear  friend  to  a  common  stale. 

Leon.   Are    these   things    spoken  ?      Or   do   I    but 
dream  ? 

D.  John.    Sir,  they  are  spoken,  and  these    things 
are  true. 

Bene.    This  looks  not  like  a  nuptial. 

Hero.  True,  O  God ! 

Claud.    Leonato,  stand  1  here  ? 
Is  this  the  prince  ?     Is  this  the  prince's  brother  ? 
Is  this  face  Hero's  ?     Are  our  eyes  our  own  ? 

Leon.    All  this  is  so  ;   but  what  of  this,  my  lord  ? 

Claud.    Let  me   but    move    one    question   to   your 

daughter ; 

And  by  that  fatherly  and  kindly  power1 
That  you  have  in  her,  bid  her  answer  truly. 

Leon.    I  charge  thee  do  so,  as  thou  art  my  child. 

Hero.    O  God,  defend  me  !     How  am  1  beset ! — 
What  kind  of  catechizing  call  you  this  ? 

Claud.    To  make  you  answer  truly  to  your  name. 

Hero.    Is  it  not  Hero  ?     Who  can  blot  that  name 
With  any  just  reproach  ? 

Claud.  Marry,  that  can  Hero  ; 

Hero  itself  can  blot  out  Hero's  virtue. 
What  man  was  he  talked  with  you  yesternight 
Out  at  your  window,  betwixt  twelve  and  one  ? 
Now,  if  you  are  a  maid,  answer  to  this. 

Hero.    I  talked  with  no  man  at  that  hour,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.    Why  then  arc  you  no  maiden. — Leonato, 
I  am  sorry  you  must  hear.     Upon  my  honor, 
Myself,  my  brother,  and  this  grieved  count, 
Did  see  her,  hear  her,  at  that  hour  last  night, 
Talk  with  a  ruffian  at  her  chamber-window ; 
WTho  hath,  indeed,  most  like  a  liberal 2  villain, 
Confessed  the  vile  encounters  they  have  had 
A  thousand  times  in  secret. 

D.  John.  Fie,  fie  !     They  are 

1  i.  e.  "  natural  power."     Kind  is  used  for  nature. 

2  Liberal  here,  as  in  many  places  of  these  plays,  means  licentious  be 
yond  honesty  or  decency. 


478  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  IV 

Not  to  be  named,  my  lord,  not  to  be  spoke  of; 
There  is  not  chastity  enough  in  language, 
Without  offence  to  utter  them.     Thus,  pretty  lady, 
I  am  sorry  for  thy  much  misgovernment. 

Claud.    O  Hero !  what  a  Hero  hadst  thou  been, 
If  half  thy  outward  graces  had  been  placed 
About  thy  thoughts,  and  counsels  of  thy  heart ! 
But  fare  thee  well,  most  foul,  most  fair !  farewell, 
Thou  pure  impiety,  and  impious  purity ! 
For  thee  I'll  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love, 
And  on  my  eyelids  shall  conjecture  hang, 
To  turn  all  beauty  into  thoughts  of  harm ; 
And  never  shall  it  more  be  gracious.1 

Leon.    Hath  no  man's  dagger  here  a  point  for  me  ? 

[HERO  sivoons. 

Beat.    Why,    how    now,   cousin !      Wherefore    sink 
you  down  ? 

D.  John.    Come,  let  us  go  :  these  things,  come  thus 

to  light, 
Smother  her  spirits  up. 

[Exeunt  DON  PEDRO,  DON  JOHN,  and  CLAUDIO. 

Bene.    How  doth  the  lady  ? 

Beat.  Dead,  I  think ; — help,  uncle  ! 

Hero  !      Why,    Hero  !— Uncle  ! — Seignior   Benedick ! 
Friar  ? 

Leon.    O  fate,  take  not  away  thy  heavy  hand  ! 
Death  is  the  fairest  cover  for  her  shame, 
That  may  be  wished  for. 

Beat.  How  now,  cousin  Hero ! 

Friar.    Have  comfort,  lady. 

Leon.    Dost  thou  look  up  ? 

Friar.    Yea  ;  wherefore  should  she  not  ? 

Leon.    Wherefore  ?     Why,   doth  not   every  earthly 

thing 

Cry  shame  upon  her  ?     Could  she  here  deny 
The  story  that  is  printed  in  her  blood  ? 2 — 
Do  not  live,  Hero ;  do  not  ope  thine  eyes : 


1  i.  e.  graced,  favored,  countenanced. 

2  That  is,  "  which  her  Hushes  discovered  to  be  true." 


SC.  I.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          479 

For  did  1  think  thou  wouldst  not  quickly  die, 

Thought  I  thy  spirits  were  stronger  than  thy  shames, 

Myself  would,  on  the  rearward  of  reproaches, 

Strike  at  thy  life.     Grieved  I,  I  had  but  one  ? 

Chid  I  for  that  at  frugal  nature's  frame  ? 1 

O,  one  too  much  by  thee  !     Why  had  I  one  ? 

Why  ever  wast  thou  lovely  in  my  eyes  ? 

Why  had  I  not,  with  charitable  hand, 

Took  up  a  beggar's  issue  at  my  gates ; 

Who  smirched  thus,  and  mired  with  infamy, 

I  might  have  said,  No  part  of  it  is  mine ; 

This  shame  derives  itself  from  unknown  loins  ? 

But  mine,  and  mine  I  loved,  and  mine  I  praised, 

And  mine  that  I  was  proud  on ;  mine  so  much, 

That  I  myself  was  to  myself  not  mine, 

Valuing  of  her :  why,  she — O,  she  is  fallen 

Into  a  pit  of  ink,  that  the  wide  sea 

Hath  drops  too  few  to  wash  her  clean  again ! 

And  salt  too  little,  which  may  season  give 

To  her  foul,  tainted  flesh ! 

Bene.  Sir,  sir,  be  patient : 

For  my  part,  I  am  so  attired  in  wonder, 
I  know  not  what  to  say. 

Beat.    O,  on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied ! 

Bene.    Lady,  were  you  her  bedfellow  last  night  ? 

Beat.    No,  truly,  not ;  although,  until  last  night, 
I  have  this  twelvemonth  been  her  bedfellow. 

Leon.    Confirmed,  confirmed !     O,  that  is  stronger 

made, 

Which  was  before  barred  up  with  ribs  of  iron ! 
Would  the  two  princes  lie  ?  and  Claudio  lie  ? 
Who  loved  her  so,  that,  speaking  of  her  foulness, 
Washed  it  with  tears  ?     Hence  from  her ;  let  her  die 

Friar.    Hear  me  a  little  ; 
For  I  have  only  been  silent  so  long, 
And  given  way  unto  this  course  of  fortune, 
By  noting  of  the  lady.     1  have  marked 
A  thousand  blushing  apparitions  start 

1  Frame  is  order,  contrivance,  disposition  of  things. 


480  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  IV. 

Into  her  face  ;  a  thousand  innocent  shames 
In  angel  whiteness  bear  away  those  blushes  ; 
And  in  her  eye  there  hath  appeared  a  fire, 
To  burn  the  errors  that  these  princes  hold 
Against  her  maiden  truth.  —  Call  me  a  fool  ; 
Trust  not  my  reading  nor  my  observations, 
Which  with  experimental  zeal  doth  warrant 
The  tenor  of  my  book  ;   trust  not  my  age, 
My  reverence,  calling,  nor  divinity, 
If  this  sweet  lady  lie  not  guiltless  here 
Under  some  biting  error. 

Leon.  Friar,  it  cannot  be. 

Thou  seest,  that  all  the  grace  that  she  hath  left, 
Is,  that  she  will  not  add  to  her  damnation 
A  sin  of  perjury  ;  she  not  denies  it. 
Why  seek'st  thou  then  to  cover  with  excuse 
That  which  appears  in  proper  nakedness  ? 

Friar.    Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accused  of? 

Hero.    They  know,  that  do  accuse  me  ;  I  know  none 
If  I  know  more  of  any  man  alive, 
Than  that  which  maiden  modesty  doth  warrant, 
Let  all  my  sins  lack  mercy  !  —  O  my  father, 
Prove  you  that  any  man  with  me  conversed 
At  hours  unmeet,  or  that  I  yesternight 
Maintained  the  change  of  words  with  any  creature, 
Refuse  me,  hate  me,  torture  me  to  death. 

Friar.    There  is    some   strange   misprision  l   in   the 
princes. 

Bene.    Two  of  them  have  the  very  bent  2  of  honor  ; 
And  if  their  wisdoms  be  misled  in  this, 
The  practice  of  it  lives  in  John  the  bastard, 
Whose  spirits  toil  in  frame  of  villanies. 

Leon.    I  know  not.     If  they  speak  but  truth  of  her, 
These  hands  shall  tear  her  ;  if  they  wrong  her  honor, 
The  proudest  of  them  shall  well  hear  of  it. 
Time  hath  not  yet  so  dried  this  blood  of  mine, 
Nor  age  so  ate  up  my  invention, 


Misconception. 

Bent  is  here  used  for  the  utmost  degree  of,  or  tendency  to,  honorable 

uct 


1  Misconception. 

2  Ben 
conduct 


SC    I.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  481 

Nor  fortune  made  such  havock  of  my  means, 
Nor  my  bad  life  reft  me  so  much  of  friends, 
But  they  shall  find,  awaked  in  such  a  kind, 
Both  strength  of  limb,  and  policy  of  mind, 
Ability  in  means,  and  choice  of  friends, 
To  quit  me  of  them  throughly. 

Friar.  Pause  a  while, 

And  let  my  counsel  sway  you  in  this  case. 
Your  daughter  here  the  princes  left  for  dead. 
Let  her  awhile  be  secretly  kept  in, 
And  publish  it,  that  she  is  dead  indeed ; 
Maintain  a  mourning  ostentation  ; l 
And  on  your  family's  old  monument 
Hang  mournful  epitaphs,  and  do  all  rites 
That  appertain  unto  a  burial. 

Leon.    What    shall    become   of    this  ?     What  will 
this  do  ? 

Friar.   Marry,  this,  well  carried,  shall  on  her  behalf 
Change  slander  to  remorse ;  that  is  some  good. 
But  not  for  that  dream  I  on  this  strange  course, 
But  on  this  travail  look  for  greater  birth. 
She  dying,  as  it  must  be  so  maintained, 
Upon  the  instant  that  she  was  accused, 
Shall  be  lamented,  pitied,  and  excused, 
Of  every  hearer  ;  for  it  so  falls  out, 
That  what  we  have,  we  prize  not  to  the  worth, 
Whiles  we  enjoy  it ;  but  being  lacked  and  lost, 
Why,  then  we  rack  2  the  value ;  then  we  find 
The  virtue,  that  possession  would  not  show  us 
Whiles  it  was  ours. — So  will  it  fare  with  Claudio 
When  he  shall  hear  she  died  upon  his  words, 
The  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  his  study  of  imagination ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  her  life 
Shall  come  apparelled  in  more  precious  habit, 
More  moving-delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul, 
Than  when  she  lived  indeed.     Then  shall  he  mourn 


i  Show,  appearance.  2  i.  e.  raise  to  the  highest  pitch. 

VOL.   I.  61 


482  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  IV, 

(If  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  liver,1) 
And  wish  he  had  not  so  accused  her  ; 
No,  though  he  thought  his  accusation  true. 
Let  this  be  so,  and  doubt  not  but  success 
Will  fashion  the  event  in  better  shape, 
Than  I  can  lay  it  down  in  likelihood. 
But  if  all  aim  but  this  be  levelled  false, 
The  supposition  of  the  lady's  death 
Will  quench  the  wonder  of  her  infamy  ; 
And,  if  it  sort  not  well,  you  may  conceal  her 
(As  best  befits  her  wounded  reputation) 
In  some  reclusive  and  religious  life, 
Out  of  all  eyes,  tongues,  minds,  and  injuries. 

Bene.    Seignior  Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you  : 
And  though,  you  know,  my  inwardness  2  and  love 
Is  very  much  unto  the  prince  and  Claudio, 
Yet,  by  mine  honor,  I  will  deal  in  this 
As  secretly,  and  justly,  as  your  soul 
Should  with  your  body. 

Leon.  Being  that  I  flow  in  grief, 

The  smallest  twine  may  lead  me. 

Friar.    'Tis  well  consented.     Presently  away  ; 
For    to   strange    sores   strangely  they  strain  the 
cure.  — 

Come,  lady,  die  to  live  :  this  wedding  day 

Perhaps  is   but  prolonged  ;     have  patience,  and 
endure. 

[Exeunt  Friar,  HERO,  and  LEONATO. 

Bene.    Lady  Beatrice,  have  you  wept  all  this  while  ? 

Beat.    Yea,  and  I  will  weep  a  while  longer. 

Bene.    I  will  not  desire  that. 

Beat.    You  have  no  reason  ;  I  do  it  freely. 

Bene.    Surely,    1    do    believe    your    fair   cousin    is 


Beat.    Ah,  how  much  might  the  man  deserve  of  me, 
that  \vould  right  her  ! 

Bene.    Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friendship  ? 
Beat.    A  very  even  way,  but  no  such  friend. 

1  The  liver  was  anciently  supposed  to  be  the  seat  of  love. 

2  Intimacy. 


SC.  l.J        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          483 

Bene.    May  a  man  do  it  ? 

Beat.    It  is  a  man's  office,  but  not  yours. 

Bene.  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as 
you  ;  is  not  that  strange  ? 

Beat.  As  strange  as  the  thing  I  know  not.  It 
were  as  possible  for  me  to  say,  I  loved  nothing  so 
well  as  you :  but  believe  me  not ;  and  yet  I  lie  not ; 
I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing. — I  am  sorry  for 
my  cousin. 

Bene.    By  my  sword,  Beatrice,  thou  lovest  me. 

Beat.    Do  not  swear  by  it,  and  eat  it. 

Bene.  I  will  swear  by  it  that  you  love  me ;  and 
I  will  make  him  eat  it,  that  says  I  love  not  you. 

Beat.    Will  you  not  eat  your  word  ? 

Bene.  With  no  sauce  that  can  be  devised  to  it. 
I  protest  I  love  thee. 

Beat.   Why  then,  God  forgive  me  ! 

Bene.   What  offence,  sweet  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.  You  have  stayed  me  in  a  happy  hour.  I  was 
about  to  protest  I  loved  you. 

Bene.    And  do  it  with  all  thy  heart. 

Beat.  I  love  you  with  so  much  of  my  heart,  that 
none  is  left  to  protest. 

Bene.    Come,  bid  me  do  any  thing  for  thee. 

Beat.    Kill  Claudio. 

Bene.    Ha !     Not  for  the  wide  world. 

Beat.    You  kill  me  to  deny  it.     Farewell. 

Bene.    Tarry,  sweet  Beatrice. 

Beat.  I  am  gone,  though  I  am  here.1 — There  is  no 
love  in  you. — Nay,  I  pray  you,  let  me  go. 

Bene.   Beatrice, — 

Beat.    In  faith,  I  will  go. 

Bene.   We'll  be  friends  first. 

Beat.  You  dare  easier  be  friends  with  me,  than 
fight  with  mine  enemy. 

Bene.    Is  Claudio  thine  enemy  ? 

Beat.    Is  he  not  approved  in  the   height  a  villain,9 

1  i.  e.  "  I  am  in  reality  absent,  for  my  heart  is  gone  from  you,  though  I 
remain  in  person  before  you." 

2  So,  in  K.  Henry  VIII. :  «  He's  a  traitor  to  the  height." 


4S4  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  IV 

that  hath  slandered,  scorned,  dishonored  my  kinswo 
man  ? — O,  that  I  were  a  man  ! — What !  bear  her  in 
hand 1  until  they  come  to  take  hands ;  and  then  with 
public  accusation,  uncovered  slander,  unmitigated  ran 
cor, — O  God,  that  I  were  a  man !  I  would  eat  his 
heart  in  the  market-place. 

Bene.    Hear  me,  Beatrice — 

Beat.  Talk  with  a  man  out  at  a  window? — a 
proper  saying ! 

Bene.   Nay  but,  Beatrice — 

Beat.  Sweet  Hero ! — She  is  wronged,  she  is  slan 
dered,  she  is  undone. 

Bene.   Beat — 

Beat.  Princes,  and  counties ! 2  Surely  a  princely 
testimony,  a  goodly  count-confect ! 3  A  sweet  gallant, 
surely !  O  that  I  were  a  man  for  his  sake !  or  that 
I  had  any  friend  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake  !  But 
manhood  is  melted  into  courtesies,4  valor  into  compli 
ment,  and  men  are  only  turned  into  tongue,  and  trim 5 
ones  too.  He  is  now  as  valiant  as  Hercules,  that  only 
tells  a  lie,  and  swears  it. — 1  cannot  be  a  man  with 
wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with  grieving. 

Bene.  Tarry,  good  Beatrice.  By  this  hand,  I  love 
thee. 

Beat.  Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than 
swearing  by  it. 

Bene.  Think  you  in  your  soul  the  count  Claudio 
hath  wronged  Hero? 

Beat.    Yea,  as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought,  or  a  soul. 

Bene.  Enough;  I  am  engaged;  I  will  challenge  him  ; 
I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  leave  you.  By  this  hand, 
Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account.  As  you  hear 
of  me,  so  think  of  me.  Go,  comfort  your  cousin ; 
I  must  say  she  is  dead  ;  and  so  farewell.  [Exeunt. 

1  Delude  her  with  false  expectations. 

2  Countie  was  the  ancient  term  for  a  count  or  earl. 

3  A  specious  nobleman  made  out  of  sugar. 

4  Ceremonies. 

5  Trim  seems  here  to  signify  apt,  fair-spoken.     Tongue  used  in  the 
singular,  and  trim  ones  in  the  plural,  is  a  mode  of  construction  not  un 
common  in  Shakspeare. 


SC.  II.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  485 


SCENE  II.     A  Prison. 

Enter  DOGBERRY,  VERGES,1  and  Sexton,    in  gowns; 
and  the  Watch,  with  CONRADE  and  BORACHIO. 

Dogb.    Is  our  whole  dissembly  appeared  ? 

Verg.    O,  a  stool  and  a  cushion  for  the  sexton ! 

Sexton.    Which  be  the  malefactors  ? 

Dogb.    Marry,  that  am  I  and  my  partner. 

Verg.  Nay,  that's  certain ;  we  have  the  exhibition 
to  examine.2 

Sexton.  But  which  are  the  offenders  that  are  to  be 
examined  ?  Let  them  come  before  master  constable. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  let  them  come  before  me. — 
What  is  your  name,  friend  ? 

Bora.    Borachio. 

Dogb.  Pray  write  down — Borachio. Yours, 

sirrah  ? 

Con.  I  am  a  gentleman,  sir,  and  my  name  is 
Conrade. 

Dogb.  Write  dowrn — master  gentleman  Conrade. — 
Masters,  do  you  serve  God  ? 

Con.  Bora.    Yea,  sir,  we  hope. 

Dogb.  Write  down — that  they  hope  they  serve 
God  ; — and  write  God  first ;  for  God  defend  but  God 
should  go  before  such  villains ! — Masters,  it  is  proved 
already  that  you  are  little  better  than  false  knaves ; 
and  it  will  go  near  to  be  thought  so  shortly.  How 
answer  you  for  yourselves  ? 

Con.    Marry,  sir,  we  say  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  A  marvellous  witty  fellow,  I  assure  you  ;  but 
I  will  go  about  with  him. — Come  you  hither,  sirrah ; 


1  Throughout  this  scene  the  names  of  Kempe  and  Coivley,  two  cele 
brated  actors  of  the  time,  are  put  for  Dogberry  and  Verges  in  the  old 
editions. 

2  This  is  a  blunder  of  the  constable's,  for  "  examination  to  exhibit." 
In  the  last  scene  of  the  third  act,  Leonato  says,  "Take  their  examination 
yourself,  and  bring  it  me." 


4  30  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  IV. 

a  word  in  your  ear,  sir ;  I  say  to  you,  it  is  thought  you 
are  false  knaves. 

Bora.    Sir,  I  say  to  you,  we  are  none. 

Dogb.  Well,  stand  aside. — 'Fore  God  they  are  both 
in  a  tale.  Have  you  writ  down — that  they  are 
none  ? 

Sexton.  Master  constable,  you  go  not  thje  way  to 
examine  ;  you  must  call  forth  the  watch  that  are  their 
accusers. 

Dogb.  Yea,  marry,  that's  the  eftest1  way. — Let 
the  watch  come  forth. — Masters,  I  charge  you,  in  the 
prince's  name,  accuse  these  men. 

1  Watch.    This  man  said,  sir,   that  don    John,  the 
prince's  brother,  was  a  villain. 

Dogb.  Write  clown — prince  John,  a  villain. — Why 
this  is  flat  perjury,  to  call  a  prince's  brother,  villain. 

Bora.    Master  constable, — 

Dogb.  Pray  thee,  fellow,  peace ;  I  do  not  like  thy 
look,  I  promise  thee. 

Sexton.    What  heard  you  him  say  else  ? 

2  Watch.    Marry,  that  he  had  received  a  thousand 
ducats  of  don  John,  for  accusing  the  lady  Hero  wrong 
fully. 

Dogb.    Flat  burglary  as  ever  was  committed. 
Verg.    Yea,  by  the  mass,  that  it  is. 
Sexton.    What  else,  fellow  ? 

1  Watch.    And  that  count  Claudio  did  mean,  upon 
his  words,  to  disgrace  Hero  before  the  whole  assembly, 
and  not  marry  her. 

Dogb.    O    villain !    thou    wilt  be   condemned   into 

o 

everlasting  redemption  for  this. 
Sexton.    What  else  ? 

2  Watch.    This  is  all. 

Sexton.  And  this  is  more,  masters,  than  you  can 
deny.  Prince  John  is  this  morning  secretly  stolen 
away.  Hero  was  in  this  manner  accused,  in  this  very 
manner  refused,  and  upon  the  grief  of  this,  suddenly 
died. — Master  constable,  let  these  men  be  bound,  and 

1  i.  e.  the  quickest  way. 


SO.  1.1  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  487 

brought  to  Leonato's ;  I  will  go  before,  and  show  him 
their  examination.  [Exit. 

Dogb.    Come,  let  them  be  opinioned. 

Verg.    Let  them  be  in  the  bands l — 

Con.  Off,  coxcomb ! 

Dogb.  God's  my  life !  where's  the  sexton  ?  Let 
him  write  down — the  prince's  officer,  coxcomb. — 
Come,  bind  them. Thou  naughty  varlet. 

Con.    Away  !     You  are  an  ass,  you  are  an  ass. 

Dogb.  Dost  thou  not  suspect  my  place  ?  Dost  thou 
not  suspect  my  years  ? — O  that  he  were  here  to  write  me 
down — an  ass  ! — But,  masters,  remember,  that  I  am  an 
ass  ;  though  it  be  not  written  down,  yet  forget  not  that 
I  am  an  ass. — No,  thou  villain,  thou  art  full  of  piety,  as 
shall  be  proved  upon  thee  by  good  witness.  I  am  a 
wise  fellow ;  and,  which  is  more,  an  officer ;  and,  which 
is  more,  a  householder ;  and,  which  is  more,  as  pretty  a 
piece  of  flesh  as  any  is  in  Messina ;  and  one  that  knows 
the  law,  go  to ;  and  a  rich  fellow  enough,  go  to ;  and  a 
fellow  that  hath  had  losses ;  and  one  that  hath  two  gowns, 
and  every  thing  handsome  about  him. — Bring  him  away. 
O  that  I  had  been  writ  down — an  ass.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.     Before  Leonato's  House. 

Enter  LEONATO  and  ANTONIO. 

Ant.    If  you  go  on  thus,  you  will  kill  yourself; 
And  'tis  not  wisdom  thus  to  second  grief 
Against  yourself. 

Leon.  I  pray  thee,  cease  thy  counsel, 

Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 

1  In  the  old  copy  this  passage  stands  thus :  "  Sexton.     Let  them  be  in 
the  hands  of  Coxcomb." 


488  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  V. 

As  water  in  a  sieve.     Give  not  me  counsel ; 

Nor  let  no  comforter  delight  mine  ear, 

But  such  a  one  whose  wrongs  do  suit  with  mine. 

Bring  me  a  father,  that  so  loved  his  child, 

Whose  joy  of  her  is  overwhelmed  like  mine, 

And  bid  him  speak  of  patience  ; 

Measure  his  woe  the  length  and  breadth  of  mine, 

And  let  it  answer  every  strain  for  strain  ; 

As  thus  for  thus,  and  such  a  grief  for  such, 

In  every  lineament,  branch,  shape,  and  form. 

If  such  a  one  will  smile,  and  stroke  his  beard ; 

Cry — -sorrow,  wag  !    and  hem,  when  he  should  groan ; 1 

Patch  grief  with  proverbs  ;  make  misfortune  drunk 

With  candle-wasters  ; 2  bring  him  yet  to  me, 

And  1  of  him  will  gather  patience. 

But  there  is  no  such  man  ;  for,  brother,  men 

Can  counsel,  and  speak  comfort  to  that  grief 

Which  they  themselves  not  feel ;  but,  tasting  it, 

Their  counsel  turns  to  passion,  which  before 

Would  give  preceptial  medicine  to  rage, 

Fetter  strong  madness  in  a  silken  thread, 

Charm  ache  with  air,  and  agony  with  words. 

No,  no ;  'tis  all  men's  office  to  speak  patience 

To  those  that  wring  under  the  load  of  sorrow ; 

But  no  man's  virtue,  nor  sufficiency, 

To  be  so  moral,  when  he  shall  endure 

The  like  himself.     Therefore  give  me  no  counsel ; 

My  griefs  cry  louder  than  advertisement.3 

Ant.    Therein  do  men  from  children  nothing  differ. 

Leon.    I  pray  thee,  peace.     I  will  be  flesh  and  blood  ; 
For  there  was  never  yet  philosopher, 
That  could  endure  the  tooth-ache  patiently ; 
However  they  have  writ  the  style  of  gods, 
And  made  a  push 4  at  chance  and  sufferance. 

1  The  folio  reads,  "  And  sorrow,  wagge,  cry  hem,"  &c. 

2  Candle-wasters — a  contemptuous  term  for  book-ivorms  or  hard  stu 
dents,  used  by  Ben  Jonson  in  Cynthia's  Revels,  and  others. 

3  That  is,  "  than  admonition,  than  moral  instruction." 

4  Push  is  the  reading  of  the  old  copy,  which  Pope  altered  to  pish  with 
out  any  seeming  necessity.     To  make  a  push  at  any  thing  is  to  contend 
against  it  or  defy  it. 


SC.  I.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          489 

Ant.    Yet  bend  not  all  the  harm  upon  yourself; 
Make  those  that  do  offend  you  suffer  too. 

Leon.    There    thou    speak'st   reason ;    nay,    I    will 

do  so. 

My  soul  doth  tell  me,  Hero  is  belied  ; 
And  that  shall  Claudio  know ;  so  shall  the  prince, 
And  all  of  them,  that  thus  dishonor  her. 

Enter  DON  PEDRO  and  CLAUDIO. 

Ant.    Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio,  hastily. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  den,  good  den. 

Claud.  Good  day  to  both  of  you. 

Leon.    Hear  you,  my  lords, — 

D.  Pedro.  We  have  some  haste,  Leonato. 

Leon.    Some  haste,  my  lord  ! — Well,  fare  you  well, 

my  lord. — 
Are  you  so  hasty  now  ? — Well,  all  is  one. 

D.  Pedro.    Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good  old 
man. 

Ant.    If  he  could  right  himself  with  quarrelling, 
Some  of  us  would  lie  low. 

Claud.  Who  wrongs  him  ? 

Leon.    Marry,  thou  dost  wrong  me ;  thou  dissem 
bler,  thou. — 

Nay,  never  lay  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword  ; 
I  fear  thee  not. 

Claud.  Marry,  beshrew  my  hand, 

If  it  should  give  your  age  such  cause  of  fear. 
In  faith,  my  hand  meant  nothing  to  my  sword. 

Leon.    Tush,  tush,  man,  never  fleer  and  jest  at  me. 
I  speak  not  like  a  dotard,  nor  a  fool ; 
As,  under  privilege  of  age,  to  brag 
What  I  have  done,  being  young,  or  what  would  do, 
Were  I  not  old.     Know,  Claudio,  to  thy  head, 
Thou  hast  so  wronged  mine  innocent  child  and  me, 
That  I  am  forced  to  lay  my  reverence  by ; 
And,  with  gray  hairs,  and  bruise  of  many  days, 
Do  challenge  thee  to  trial  of  a  man. 
I  say,  thou  hast  belied  mine  innocent  child : 
VOL.  i.  62 


490  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT   NOTHIING.  [ACT  V 

Thy  slander  hath  gone  through  and  through  her  heart, 
And  she  lies  buried  with  her  ancestors. 
O !  in  a  tomb  where  never  scandal  slept, 
Save  this  of  hers,  framed  by  thy  villany. 

Claud.    My  villany ! 

Leon.  Thine,  Claudio ;  thine,  I  say. 

D.  Pedro.    You  say  not  right,  old  man. 

Leon.  My  lord,  my  lord, 

I'll  prove  it  on  his  body,  if  he  dare  ; 
Despite  his  nice  fence,  and  his  active  practice,1 
His  May  of  youth,  and  bloom  of  lustihood. 

Claud.    Away,  I  will  not  have  to  do  with  you. 

Leon.    Canst  thou  so  daff2  me  ?     Thou  hast  killed 

my  child ; 
If  thou  kill'st  me,  boy,  thou  shalt  kill  a  man. 

Ant.    He  shall  kill  two  of  us,  and  men  indeed. 
But  that's  no  matter ;  let  him  kill  one  first — 
Win  me  and  wear  me, — let  him  answer  me, — 
Come,  follow  me,  boy.     Come,  boy,  follow  me  : 3 
Sir  boy,  I'll  whip  you  from  your  foining 4  fence  ; 
Nay,  as  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  will. 

Leon.   Brother, — 

Ant.    Content  yourself.      God  knows,   I  loved  my 

niece  ; 

And  she  is  dead,  slandered  to  death  by  villains, 
That  dare  as  well  answer  a  man,  indeed, 
As  I  dare  take  a  serpent  by  the  tongue ; 
Boys,  apes,  braggarts,  jacks,  milksops  !— 

Leon.  Brother  Antony, — 

Ant.    Hold   you    content.      What,    man !     I    know 

them,  yea, 

And  what  they  weigh,  even  to  the  utmost  scruple  : 
Scambling,5  out-facing,  fashion-mong'ring  boys, 
That  lie,  and  cog,  and  flout,  deprave  and  slander, 

1  Skill  in  fencing. 

2  This  is  only  a  corrupt  form  of  doff,  to  do  off  or  put  off. 

3  The  folio  reads :— 

Come,  sir  boy,  come  follow  me. 

4  Thrusting. 

5  Scambling  appears  to  have  been  much  the  same  as  scrambling;  shift 
ing  or  shuffling. 


SC.  1.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          491 

Go  anticly,  and  show  outward  hideousness, 
And  speak  off  half  a  dozen  dangerous  words, 
How  they  might  hurt  their  enemies,  if  they  durst, 
And  this  is  all. 

Leon.   But,  brother  Antony, — 

Ant.  Come,  'tis  no  matter ; 

Do  not  you  meddle ;  let  me  deal  in  this. 

D.  Pedro.    Gentlemen  both,  we  will  not  wake l  your 

patience. 

My  heart  is  sorry  for  your  daughter's  death  ; 
But,  on  my  honor,  she  was  charged  with  nothing 
But  what  was  true,  and  very  full  of  proof. 

Leon.   My  lord,  my  lord, — 

D.  Pedro.  I  will  not  hear  you. 

Leon.  No  ? 

Come,  brother,  away ; — I  will  be  heard ; — 

Ant.  And  shall, 

Or  some  of  us  will  smart  for  it. 

[Exeunt  LEONATO  and  ANTONIO. 

Enter  BENEDICK. 

D.  Pedro.  See,  see ;  here  comes  the  man  we  went 
to  seek. 

Claud.   Now,  seignior !    what  news  ? 

Bene.    Good  day,  my  lord. 

D.  Pedro.  Welcome,  seignior.  You  are  almost 
come  to  part  almost  a  fray. 

Claud.  We  had  like  to  have  had  our  two  noses 
snapped  off  with  two  old  men  without  teeth. 

D.  Pedro.  Leonato  and  his  brother.  What  think'st 
thou  ?  Had  we  fought,  I  doubt  we  should  have  been 
too  young  for  them. 

Bene.  In  a  false  quarrel  there  is  no  true  valor.  I 
came  to  seek  you  both. 

Claud.  We  have  been  up  and  down  to  seek  thee ; 
for  we  are  high-proof  melancholy,  and  would  fain  have 
it  beaten  away.  Wilt  thou  use  thy  wit  ? 


i  i.  e.  rouse,  stir  up,  convert  your  patience  into  anger,  by  remaining 
longer  in  your  presence. 


492          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING       [ACT  V. 

Bene.     It  is  in  my  scabbard.     Shall  I  draw  it  ? 

D.  Pedro.    Dost  thou  wear  thy  wit  by  thy  side  ? 

Claud.  Never  any  did  so,  though  very  many  have 
been  beside  their  wit. — I  will  bid  thee  draw,  as  we  do 
the  minstrels ;  draw,  to  pleasure  us. 

D.  Pedro.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  he  looks  pale. 
— Art  thou  sick,  or  angry  ? 

Claud.  What !  Courage,  man  !  What  though  care 
killed  a  cat,  thou  hast  mettle  enough  in  thee  to  kill 
care. 

Bene.  Sir,  I  shall  meet  your  wit  in  the  career,  an 
you  charge  it  against  me. — I  pray  you,  choose  another 
subject. 

Claud.  Nay,  then  give  him  another  staff;  this  last 
was  broke  cross.1 

D.  Pedro.  By  this  light,  he  changes  more  and 
more  ;  I  think  he  be  angry  indeed. 

Claud.    If  he  be,  he  knows  how  to  turn  his  girdle.2 

Bene.    Shall  I  speak  a  word  in  your  ear  ? 

Claud.    God  bless  me  from  a  challenge ! 

Bene.  You  are  a  villain. — I  jest  not ; — I  will  make 
it  good  how  you  dare,  with  what  you  dare,  and  when 
you  dare. — Do  me  right,  or  I  will  protest  your  coward 
ice.  You  have  killed  a  sweet  lady,  and  her  death  shall 
fall  heavy  on  you.  Let  me  hear  from  you. 

Claud.  Well,  I  will  meet  you,  so  I  may  have  good 
cheer. 

D.  Pedro.    What,  a  feast  ?     A  feast  ? 

Claud.  I 'faith,  I  thank  him ;  he  hath  bid  me  to  a 
calf's  head  and  a  capon ;  the  which  if  I  do  not  carve 
most  curiously,  say,  my  knife's  naught. — Shall  I  not 
find  a  woodcock3  too  ? 


1  The  allusion  is  to  tilting.     See  note,  As  You  Like  It,  Act  iii.  Sc.  4. 

a  There  is  a  proverbial  phrase,  "  If  he  be  angry,  let  him  turn  the  buckle 
of  his  girdle."  Mr.  Holt  White  says,  "  Large  belts  were  worn  with  the 
buckle  before ;  but  for  wrestling,  the  buckle  was  turned  behind,  to  give  the 
adversary  a  fairer  grasp  at  the  girdle.  To  turn  the  buckle  behind  was 
therefore  a  challenge." 

3  A  woodcock,  being  supposed  to  have  no  brains,  was  a  common  phrase 
for  a  foolish  fellow.  It  means  here  one  caught  in  a  springe  or  trap,  al 
luding  to  the  plot  against  Benedick. 


SC.  I.]  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  493 

Be  tie.    Sir,  your  wit  ambles  well ;  it  goes  easily. 

D.  Pedro.  I'll  tell  thee  how  Beatrice  praised  thy  wit 
the  other  day.  I  said  thou  hadst  a  fine  wit.  True, 
says  she,  a  fine  little  one ;  No,  said  I,  a  great  wit ; 
Right,  says  she,  a  great  gross  one;  Nay,  said  I,  a  good 
wit ;  Just,  said  she,  it  hurts  nobody ;  Nay,  said  I,  the 
gentleman  is  wise  ;  Certain,  said  she,  a  wise  gentleman ; l 
Nay,  said  I,  he  hath  the  tongues ;  That  I  believe,  said  she, 
for  he  swore  a  thing  to  me  on  Monday  night,  which  he 
forswore  on  Tuesday  morning  ;  there^s  a  double  tongue  ; 
there' 's  two  tongues.  Thus  did  she,  an  hour  together, 
transshape  thy  particular  virtues ;  yet,  at  last,  she  con 
cluded,  with  a  sigh,  thou  wast  the  properest  man  in  Italy. 

Claud.  For  the  which  she  wept  heartily,  and  said, 
she  cared  not. 

D.  Pedro.  Yea,  that  she  did ;  but  yet,  for  all  that, 
and  if  she  did  not  hate  him  deadly,  she  would  love  him 
dearly.  The  old  man's  daughter  told  us  all. 

Claud.  All,  all ;  and  moreover,  God  saw  him  when 
he  was  hid  in  the  garden. 

D.  Pedro.  But  when  shall  we  set  the  savage  bull's 
horns  on  the  sensible  Benedick's  head  ? 

Claud.  Yea,  and  text  underneath,  Here  dwells 
Benedick  the  married  man? 

Bene.  Fare  you  well,  boy ;  you  know  my  mind ; 
I  will  leave  you  now  to  your  gossip-like  humor ;  you 
break  jests  as  braggarts  do  their  blades,  which,  God 
be  thanked,  hurt  not. — My  lord,  for  your  many  cour 
tesies  I  thank  you  ;  I  must  discontinue  your  company. 
Your  brother,  the  bastard,  is  fled  from  Messina ;  you 
have,  among  you,  killed  a  sweet  and  innocent  lady. 
For  my  lord  Lack-beard,  there,  he  and  I  shall  meet ; 
and  till  then,  peace  be  with  him.  [Exit  BENEDICK. 

D.  Pedro.    He  is  in  earnest. 

Claud.  In  most  profound  earnest ;  and  I'll  warrant 
you,  for  the  love  of  Beatrice. 

D.  Pedro.    And  hath  challenged  thee  ? 


1   JVise  gentleman  was  probably  used  ironically  for  a  silly  fellow ;  as 
we  still  say  a  wise-acre. 


494  MUCH   ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  V. 

Claud.     Most  sincerely. 

D.  Pedro.  What  a  pretty  thing  man  is,  when  he 
goes  in  his  doublet  and  hose,  and  leaves  off  his  wit ! l 

Claud.  He  is  then  a  giant  to  an  ape ;  but  then  is 
an  ape  a  doe  tor  to  sueh  a  man. 

D.  Pedro.  But,  soft  you,  let  be ; 2  pluek  up,  my 
heart,  and  be  sad ! 3  Did  he  not  say,  my  brother 
was  fled  ? 


Enter    DOGBERRY,    VERGES,    and    the    Watch,    with 
CONRADE  and  BORACHIO. 

Dogb.  Come,  you,  sir  ;  if  justice  cannot  tame  you, 
she  shall  ne'er  weigh  more  reasons  in  her  balance. 
Say,  and  you  be  a  cursing  hypocrite  once,  you  must 
be  looked  to. 

D.  Pedro.  How  now,  two  of  my  brother's  men 
bound  !  Borachio,  one  ! 

Claud.    Hearken  after  their  offence,  my  lord ! 

D.  Pedro.  Officers,  what  offence  have  these  men 
done  ? 

Dogb.  Marry,  sir,  they  have  committed  false  report ; 
moreover,  they  have  spoken  untruths ;  secondarily, 
they  are  slanderers ;  sixth  and  lastly,  they  have  belied 
a  lady ;  thirdly,  they  have  verified  unjust  things  ;  and, 
to  conclude,  they  are  lying  knaves. 

D.  Pedro.  First,  I  ask  tliee  what  they  have  done , 
thirdly,  I  ask  thee  what's  their  offence ;  sixth  and 
lastly,  why  they  are  committed ;  and,  to  conclude, 
what  you  lay  to  their  charge  ? 

Claud,  llightly  reasoned,  and  in  his  own  division  ; 
and,  by  my  troth,  there's  one  meaning  well  suited.4 

D.  Pedro.    Whom  have  you  offended,  masters,  that 


1  These  words  are  probably  meant  to  express  what  Rosaline,  in  As 
You  Like  It,  calls  the  "careless  desolation"  of  a.  lover. 

3  The  old  copies  read,  "  let  me  be  : "  the  emendation  is  Malone's.  Li t 
be  appears  here  to  signify  /joZ//,  rest  there.  It  has  the  same  signification 
in  Saint  Matthew,  ch.  xxvii.  v.  49. 

3  i.  e.   "rouse  thyself  my  heart  and  be  prepared  for   serious  conse 
quences." 

4  That  is,  one  meaning  put  into  many  different  dresses. 


SC.  1.]  MUCH   ADO   AliGUT   NOTHING.  495 

you  are  thus  bound  to  your  answer  ?  This  learned 
constable  is  too  cunning  to  be  understood.  What's 
your  offence  ? 

Bora.  Sweet  prince,  let  me  go  no  further  to  mine 
answer ;  do  you  hear  me,  and  let  this  count  kill  me. 
I  have  deceived  even  your  very  eyes.  What  your 
wisdoms  could  not  discover,  these  shallow  fools  have 
brought  to  light ;  who,  in  the  night,  overheard  me  con 
fessing  to  this  man,  how  don  John,  your  brother,  in 
censed  me  to  slander  the  lady  Hero ;  how  you  were 
brought  into  the  orchard,  and  saw  me  court  Margaret 
in  Hero's  garment ;  how  you  disgraced  her,  when  you 
should  marry  her.  My  villany  they  have  upon  record  ; 
which  I  had  rather  seal  with  my  death,  than  repeat 
over  to  my  shame.  The  lady  is  dead  upon  mine  and 
my  master's  false  accusation ;  and,  briefly,  I  desire 
nothing  but  the  reward  of  a  villain. 

D.  Pedro.    Runs  not  this  speech  like  iron  through 
your  blood  ? 

Claud.    I  have  drunk  poison,  \vhiles  he  uttered  it. 

D.  Pedro.    But  did  my  brother  set  ihee  on  to  this  ? 

Bora.  Yea,  and  paid  me  richly  for  the  practice 
of  it. 

D.  Pedro.    He  is  composed  and  framed  of  treach 
ery  ; — 
And  fled  he  is  upon  this  villany. 

Claud.  Sweet  Hero  !  Now  thy  image  doth  appear 
In  the  rare  semblance  that  I  loved  it  first. 

Dogb.  Come,  bring  away  the  plaintiffs.  By  this 
time  our  sexton  hath  reformed  seignior  Leonato  of 
the  matter.  And,  masters,  do  not  forget  to  specify, 
when  time  and  place  shall  serve,  that  I  am  an  ass. 

Verg.  Here,  here  comes  master  seignior  Leonato, 
and  the  sexton  too. 


Re-enter  LEONATO  and  ANTONIO,  with  the  Sexton. 

Leon.    Which  is  the  villain  ?     Let  me  see  his  eyes ; 
That  when  I  note  another  man  like  him, 
T  may  avoid  him.     Which  of  these  is  he  ? 


496  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  V. 

Bora.    If  you    would    know    jour    wronger,    look 
on   me. 

Leon.    Art   thou    the    slave,   that  with    thy  breath 

hast  killed 
Mine  innocent  child  ? 

Bora.  Yea,  even  I  alone. 

Leon.    No,  not  so,  villain  ;  thou  bely'st  thyself. 
Here  stand  a  pair  of  honorable  men, 
A  third  is  fled,  that  had  a  hand  in  it. — 
I  thank  you,  princes,  for  my  daughter's  death. 
Record  it  with  your  high  and  worthy  deeds ; 
'Tvvas  bravely  done,  if  you  bethink  you  of  it. 

Claud.    I  know  not  how  to  pray  your  patience  ; 
Yet  I  must  speak.     Choose  your  revenge  yourself; 
Impose  me  to  what  penance  your  invention 
Can  lay  upon  my  sin.     Yet  sinned  I  not, 
But  in  mistaking. 

D.  Pedro.  By  my  soul,  nor  I ; 

And  yet,  to  satisfy  this  good  old  man, 
I  would  bend  under  any  heavy  weight 
That  he'll  enjoin  me  to. 

Leon.    I  cannot  bid  you  bid  my  daughter  live ; 
That  were  impossible  ;  but,  I  pray  you  both, 
Possess ]  the  people  in  Messina  here 
How  innocent  she  died ;  and,  if  your  love 
Can  labor  aught  in  sad  invention, 
Hang  her  an  epitaph  upon  her  tomb, 
And  sing  it  to  her  bones.      Sing  it  to-night. — 
To-morrow  morning  come  you  to  my  house  ; 
And  since  you  could  not  bo  my  son-in-law, 
Be  yet  my  nephew.     My  brother  hath  a  daughter, 
Almost  the  copy  of  my  child  that's  dead  ; 
And  she  alone  is  heir  to  both  of  us : 2 
Give  her  the  right  you  should  have  given  her  cousin, 
And  so  dies  my  revenge. 

Claud.  O,  noble  sir, 

Your  over-kindness  doth  wrinir  tears  from  me  ! 


• 


1  To  possess  anciently  signified  to  inform,  to  make  acquainted  with. 
9  Yet  Shakspeare  makes  Leonato  say  to  Antonio,  Act  i.  Sc.  5,  "How 
now,  brother;  where  is  my  cousin  your  son?"  &c. 


SC.  I.]        MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          497 

I  do  embrace  your  offer ;  and  dispose 
For  henceforth  of  poor  Claudio. 

Leon.    To-morrow  then  I  will  expect  jour  coining ; 
To-night  I  take  my  leave. — This  naughty  man 
Shall  face  to  face  be  brought  to  Margaret, 
Who,  1  believe,  was  packed l  in  all  this  wrong, 
Hired  to  it  by  your  brother. 

Bora.  No,  by  my  soul,  she  was  not  ; 

Nor  knew  not  what  she  did,  when  she  spoke  to  me ; 
But  always  hath  been  just  and  virtuous, 
In  any  thing  that  I  do  know  by  her. 

Dogb.  Moreover,  sir,  (which,  indeed,  is  not  under 
white  and  black,)  this  plaintiff  here,  the  offender,  did 
call  me  ass.  I  beseech  you,  let  it  be  remembered  in 
his  punishment ;  and  also,  the  watch  heard  them  talk 
of  one  Deformed  :  they  say,  he  wears  a  key  in  his  ear, 
and  a  lock  hanging  by  it,2  and  borrows  money  in  God's 
name ;  the  which  he  hath  used  so  long,  and  never 
paid,  that  now  men  grow  hard-hearted,  and  will  lend 
nothing  for  God's  sake.  Pray  you,  examine  him  upon 
that  point. 

Leon.    I  thank  thee  for  thy  care  and  honest  pains. 

Dogb.  Your  worship  speaks  like  a  most  thankful 
and  reverend  youth;  and  I  praise  God  for  you. 

Leon.    There's  for  thy  pains. 

Do^b.    God  save  the  foundation.3 

O 

Leon.  Go,  I  discharge  thee  of  thy  prisoner,  and 
I  thank  thee. 

Dogb.  I  leave  an  errant  knave  with  your  worship ; 
which,  I  beseech  your  worship,  to  correct  yourself,  for 
the  example  of  others.  God  keep  your  worship ;  I 
wish  your  worship  well ;  God  restore  you  to  health  ; 
I  humbly  give  you  leave  to  depart ;  and  if  a  merry 


1  i.  e.  combined ;  an  accomplice. 

2  It  was  one  of  the  fantastic  fashions  of  Shakspeare's  time  to  wear  a 
long  hanging  lock  of  hair  dangling  by  the  ear ;  it  is  often  mentioned  by 
contemporary  writers,  and  may  be  observed  in  some  ancient  portraits. 
The  humor  of  this  passage  is  in  Dogberry's  supposing  the  lock  to  have  a 
key  to  it 

3  A  phrase  used  by  those  who  received  alms  at  the  gates  of  religious 
houses.     Dogberry  probably  designed  to  say,  "  God  save  the  founder." 

VOL.  i.  63 


498  MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  V. 

meeting    may    be    wished,    God    prohibit    it.  —  Come, 
neighbor.      [Exeunt  DOGBERRY,  VERGES,  and  Watch. 
Leon.    Until  to-morrow  morning,  lords,  farewell. 
Ant.    Farewell,  my  lords  ;  we  look  for  you  to-morrow. 
D.  Pedro.    We  will  not  fail. 

Claud.  To-night  I'll  mourn  with  Hero. 

[Exeunt  DON  PEDRO  and  CLAUDIO. 

Leon.    Bring  you  these  fellows  on  ;  we'll  talk  with 

Margaret, 
How  her  acquaintance  grew  with  this  lewd  1  fellow. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.     Leonato's  Garden. 

Enter  BENEDICK  and  MARGARET,  meeting. 

Bene.  Pray  thee,  sweet  mistress  Margaret,  de 
serve  well  at  my  hands,  by  helping  me  to  the  speech 
of  Beatrice. 

Marg.  Will  you  then  write  me  a  sonnet  in  praise 
of  my  beauty  ? 

Bene.  In  so  high  a  style,  Margaret,  that  no  man 
living  shall  come  over  it  ;  for,  in  most  comely  truth, 
thou  deservest  it. 

Marg.  To  have  no  man  come  over  me  ?  WThy, 
shall  I  always  keep  below  stairs  ?  9 

Bcne.  Thy  wit  is  as  quick  as  the  greyhound's 
mouth  ;  it  catches. 

Marg.  And  yours  as  blunt  as  the  fencer's  foils, 
which  hit,  but  hurt  not. 

Bcne.  A  most  manly  wit,  Margaret  ;  it  will  not  hurt 
a  woman  ;  and  so,  I  pray  thee,  call  Beatrice.  I  give 
thee  the  bucklers.3 

Marg.  Give  us  the  swords  ;  we  have  bucklers  of 
our 


1  Here  lewd  means  knavish,  ungracious^  naughty,  which  are  the  syn- 
onymes  used  with  it  in  explaining  the  Latin  pravus  in  dictionaries  of  the 
sixteenth  century. 

2  Of  this  passage  Dr.  Johnson  says,  "I  suppose  every  reader  will  find 
the  meaning." 

3  i.  e.  "  I  yield." 


SC.  II.]  MUCH  ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  499 

Bene.  If  you  use  them,  Margaret,  you  must  put 
in  the  pikes  with  a  vice ;  and  they  are  dangerous 
weapons  for  maids. 

Marg.  Well,  I  will  call  Beatrice  to  you,  who,  1 
think,  hath  legs.  [Exit  MARGARET. 

Bene.    And  therefore  will  come. 

The  god  of  love,  [Singing. 

That  sits  above, 

And  knows  me,  and  knows  me, 
How  pitiful  I  deserve, — 

1  mean,  in  singing ;  but  in  loving, — Leander  the  good 
swimmer,  Troilus  the  first  employer  of  panders,  and 
a  whole  book  full  of  these  quondam  carpet-mongers, 
whose  names  yet  run  smoothly  in  the  even  road  of  a 
blank  verse,  why,  they  were  never  so  truly  turned  over 
and  over  as  my  poor  self,  in  Jove.  Marry,  I  cannot 
show  it  in  rhyme ;  I  have  tried ;  I  can  find  out  no 
rhyme  to  lady  but  baby,  an  innocent  rhyme ;  for  scorn, 
horn,  a  hard  rhyme  ;  for  school,  fool,  a  babbling  rhyme  ; 
very  ominous  endings.  No,  I  was  not  born  under  a 
rhyming  planet,  nor  I  cannot  woo  in  festival  terms.1 — 

Enter  BEATRICE. 

Sweet  Beatrice,  would'st  thou  come  when  I  called  thee  ? 

Beat.    Yea,  seignior,  and  depart  when  you  bid  me. 

Bene.    O,  stay  but  till  then  ! 

Beat.  Then,  is  spoken ;  fare  you  well  now. — And 
yet,  ere  I  go,  let  me  go  with  that  I  came  for,  which  is, 
with  knowing  what  hath  passed  between  you  and 
Claudio. 

Bene.  Only  foul  words  ;  and  thereupon  I  will  kiss 
thee. 

Beat.  Foul  words  is  but  foul  wind,  and  foul  wind  is 
but  foul  breath,  and  foul  breath  is  noisome ;  therefore 
I  will  depart  unkissed. 

Bene.    Thou  hast  frighted  the  word  out  of  his  right 

1  i.  e.  "  in  choice  phraseology" 


500  MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  V. 

sense,  so  forcible  is  thy  wit.  But,  I  must  tell  thee  plain 
ly,  Claudio  undergoes  my  challenge  ;  and  either  I  must 
shortly  hear  from  him,  or  I  will  subscribe  him  a  cow 
ard.  And,  I  pray  thee  now,  tell  me,  for  which  of  my 
bad  parts  didst  thou  first  fall  in  love  with  me  ? 

Beat.  For  them  all  together ;  which  maintained  so 
politic  a  state  of  evil,  that  they  will  not  admit  any 
good  part  to  intermingle  with  them.  But  for  which  of 
my  good  parts  did  you  first  suffer  love  for  me  ? 

Bene.  Suffer  love !  a  good  epithet !  I  do  suffer 
love,  indeed,  for  I  love  thee  against  my  will. 

Beat.  In  spite  of  your  heart,  I  think.  Alas !  poor 
heart !  If  you  spite  it  for  my  sake,  I  will  spite  it  for 
yours  ;  for  I  will  never  love  that  which  my  friend  hates. 

Bene.    Thou  and  I  are  too  wise  to  woo  peaceably. 

Beat.  It  appears  not  in  this  confession.  There's 
not  one  wise  man  among  twenty  that  will  praise 
himself. 

Bene.  An  old,  an  old  instance,  Beatrice,  that  lived 
in  the  time  of  good  neighbors.  If  a  man  do  not  erect 
in  this  age  his  own  tomb  ere  he  dies,  he  shall  live  no 
longer  in  monument,  than  the  bell  rings,  and  the 
widow  weeps. 

Beat.    And  how  long  is  that,  think  you  ? 

Bene.  Question  ! 1 — Why,  an  hour  in  clamor,  and  a 
quarter  in  rheum.  Therefore  it  is  most  expedient  for 
the  wise  (if  don  Worm,  his  conscience,  find  no  impedi 
ment  to  the  contrary)  to  be  the  trumpet  of  his  own 
virtues,  as  I  am  to  myself.  So  much  for  praising 
myself,  (who,  I  myself  will  bear  witness,  is  praise 
worthy  ;)  and  now  tell  me,  how  doth  your  cousin  ? 

Beat.    Very  ill. 

Bene.    And  how  do  you  ? 

Beat.    Very  ill  too. 

Bene.  Serve  God,  love  me,  and  mend.  There  will 
I  leave  you  too,  for  here  comes  one  in  haste. 

1  This  phrase  appears  to  be  equivalent  to — "  You  ask  a  question  in 
deed  ! " — or  "  That  is  the  question ! " 


SC.  III.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  501 


Enter  URSULA. 

Urs.  Madam,  you  must  come  to  jour  uncle ; 
yonder's  old  coil l  at  home.  Ft  is  proved  my  lady 
Hero  hath  been  falsely  accused,  the  prince  ana1 
Claudio  mightily  abused ;  and  don  John  is  the  author 
of  all,  who  is  fled  and  gone.  Will  you  come  presently  ? 

Beat.    Will  you  go  hear  this  news,  seignior  ? 

Bene.  I  will  live  in  thy  heart,  die  in  thy  lap,  and 
be  buried  in  thy  eyes ;  and,  moreover,  I  will  go  with 
thee  to  thy  uncle's.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  III.     The  Inside  of  a  Church. 

Enter  DON   PEDRO,   CLAUDIO,  and  Attendants,  with 
music  and  tapers. 

Claud.    Is  this  the  monument  of  Leonato  ? 

Atten.    It  is,  my  lord. 

Claud.    [Reads  from  a  scroll.'} 

Done  to  death 2  by  slanderous  tongues 

Was  the  Hero  that  here  lies ; 
Death,  in  guerdon 3  of  her  wrongs, 

Gives  her  fame  which  never  dies; 
So  the  life,  that  died  with  shame, 

Lives  in  death  with  glorious  fame. 


Hang  thou  there  upon  the  tomb,        [Affixing  it. 
Praising  her  when  I  am  dumb. — 

Now7,  music,  sound,  and  sing  your  solemn  hymn. 


1  Old  coil  is  great  or  abundant  bustle.     Old  was  a  common  augmenta 
tive  in  ancient  familiar  language. 

2  This  phrase  occurs  frequently  in  writers  of  Shakspeare's  time;  it  ap 
pears  to  be  derived  from  the  French  phrase  faire  mourir. 

3  Reward. 


502  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.  [ACT  V. 


SONG. 

Pardon,  Goddess  of  the  night. 
Those  that  slew  thy  virgin  knight : 
For  the  which,  with  songs  of  woe, 
Round  about  her  tomb  they  go. 

Midnight,  assist  our  moan; 

Help  us  to  sigh  and  groan, 
Heavily,  heavily. 

Graves,  yawn  and  yield  your  dead, 

Till  death  be  uttered, 
Heavenly,  heavenly.1 

Claud.    Now,  unto  thy  bones  good  night ! 

Yearly  will  I  do  this  rite. 
D.  Pedro.    Good  morrow,  masters.     Put  your  torches 

out; 

The  wolves  have  preyed ;  and  look,  the  gentle  day, 
Before  the  wheels  of  Phoebus,  round  about 

Dapples  the  drowsy  east  with  spots  of  gray. 
Thanks  to  you  all,  and  leave  us  ;  fare  you  well. 

Claud.    Good  morrow,  masters  ;  each  his  several  way. 
D.  Pedro.    Come,  let  us  hence,  and  put  on  other 

weeds ; 
And  then  to  Leonato's  we  will  go. 

Claud.    And,  Hymen,  now  with  luckier  issue  speeds, 
Than  this,  for  whom  w7c  rendered  up  this  woe  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.     A  Room  in  Lconato's  House. 

Enter  LEONATO,  ANTONIO,  BENEDICK,  BEATRICE,  UR 
SULA,  Friar,  and  HERO. 

Friar.    Did  I  not  tell  you  she  was  innocent  ? 
Leon.    So    are    the    prince    and    Claudio,  who    ac 
cused  her 


In  some  of  the  modern  editions,  this  is  altered  to  heavily,  heavily. 


SC.  IV.]       MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.          503 

Upon  the  error  that  you  heard  debated. 
But  Margaret  was  in  some  fault  for  this ; 
Although  against  her  will,  as  it  appears 
Fn  the  true  course  of  all  the  question. 

Ant.   Well,  I  am  glad  that  all  things  sort  so  well. 

Bene.    And  so  am  I,  being  else  by  faith  enforced 
To  call  young  Claudio  to  a  reckoning  for  it. 

Leon.    Well,  daughter,  and  you  gentlewomen  all, 
Withdraw  into  a  chamber  by  yourselves ; 
And,  when  I  send  for  you,  come  hither  masked. 
The  prince  and  Claudio  promised  by  this  hour 
To  visit  me. — You  know  your  office,  brother  ; 
You  must  be  father  to  your  brother's  daughter, 
And  give  her  to  young  Claudio.  [Exeunt  Ladies. 

Ant.    Which  I  will  do  with  confirmed  countenance. 

Bene.    Friar,  I  must  entreat  your  pains,  I  think. 

Friar.    To  do  what,  seignior  ? 

Bene.    To  bind  me,  or  undo  me,  one  of  them. — 
Seignior  Leonato,  truth  it  is,  good  seignior, 
Your  niece  regards  me  with  an  eye  of  favor. 

Leon.    That  eye  my  daughter  lent  her.     'Tis  most 
true. 

Bene.    And  I  do  with  an  eye  of  love  requite  her. 

Leon.    The  sight  whereof,  I  think,  you  had  from  me, 
From  Claudio,  and  the  prince.     But  what's  your  will  ? 

Bene.    Your  answer,  sir,  is  enigmatical : 
But,  for  my  will,  my  will  is,  your  good  will 
May  stand  with  ours,  this  day  to  be  conjoined 
In  the  estate  of  honorable  marriage ; — 
In  which,  good  friar,  I  shall  desire  your  help. 

Leon.    My  heart  is  with  your  liking. 

Friar.  And  my  help 

Here  comes  the  prince,  and  Claudio. 

Enter  DON  PEDRO  and  CLAUDIO,  -with  Attendants. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  morrow  to  this  fair  assembly. 

Leon.    Good  morrow,  prince  ;  good  morrow,  Claudio. 
We  here  attend  you ;  are  you  yet  determined 
To-day  to  marry  with  my  brother's  daughter  ? 


504          MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.       [ACT  V. 

Claud.    I'll  hold  my  mind,  were  she  an  Ethiope. 

Leon.    Call  her  forth,  brother,  here's  the  friar  readj^. 

[Exit  ANTONIO. 

D.  Pedro.    Good  morrow,  Benedick.     Why,  what's 

the  matter, 

That  you  have  such  a  February  face, 
So  full  of  frost,  of  storm,  arid  cloudiness  ? 

Claud.    I  think,  he  thinks  upon  the  savage  bull.1 
Tush,  fear  not,  man,  we'll  tip  thy  horns  with  gold, 
And  all  Europa  shall  rejoice  at  thee ; 
As  once  Europa  did  at  lusty  Jove, 
When  he  would  play  the  noble  beast  in  love. 

Bene.    Bull  Jove,  sir,  had  an  amiable  low ; 
And  some  such  strange  bull  leaped  your  father's  cow, 
And  got  a  calf  in  that  same  noble  feat, 
Much  like  to  you,  for  you  have  just  his  bleat. 

Re-enter  ANTONIO,  with  the  Ladies  masked. 

Claud.    For   this    I    owe   you ;    here    comes   other 

reckoning. 
Which  is  the  lady  I  must  seize  upon  ? 

Ant.    This  same  is  she,  and  I  do  give  you  her. 

Claud.    Why,  then  she's  mine.     Sweet,  let  me  see 
your  face. 

Leon.    No,  that  you  shall  not,  till  you  take  her  hand 
Before  this  friar,  and  swear  to  marry  her. 

Claud.    Give  me  your  hand  before  this  holy  friar ; 
I  am  your  husband  if  you  like  of  me. 

Hero.    And  when  I  lived,  I  was  your  other  wife  : 

[Unmasking. 
And  when  you  loved,  you  were  my  other  husband. 

Claud.    Another  Hero ! 

Hero.  Nothing  certainer. 

One  Hero  died  defiled ;  but  I  do  live, 
And  surely  as  I  live,  I  am  a  maid. 

D.  Pedro.    The  former  Hero !     Hero  that  is  dead  ! 


1  Still  alluding  to  the  passage  quoted  from  Hieronymo,  or  the  Spanish 
Tragedy,  in  the  first  scene  of  the  play. 


SC.  IV.]  MUCH   ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING.  505 

Leon.    She  died,  my  lord,  but  whiles  her  slander 
lived. 

Friar.    All  this  amazement  can  I  qualify ; 
When,  after  that  the  holy  rites  are  ended, 
I'll  tell  you  largely  of  fair  Hero's  death. 
Mean  time,  let  wonder  seem  familiar, 
And  to  the  chapel  let  us  presently. 

Bene.    Soft  and  fair,  friar. — Which  is  Beatrice  ? 

Beat.    I  answer  to  that  name  ;  [Unmasking.']    What 
is  your  will  ? 

Bene.   Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Beat.  Why,  no,  no  more  than  reason. 

Bene.    Why,  then  your  uncle,  and  the  prince,  and 

Claudio, 
Have  been  deceived ;  for  they  swore  you  did. 

Beat.    Do  not  you  love  me  ? 

Bene.  Troth,  no,  no  more  than  reason. 

Beat.  Why,  then  my  cousin,  Margaret,  and  Ursula, 
Are  much  deceived ;  for  they  did  swear  you  did. 

Bene.    They  swore  that  you  were  almost  sick  for  me. 

Beat.    They  swore   that  you  were  well-nigh  dead 
for  me. 

Bene.    'Tis   no    such   matter. — Then   you   do   not 
love  me  ? 

Beat.    No,  truly,  but  in  friendly  recompense. 

Leon.    Come,   cousin,    1    am    sure    you    love    the 
gentleman. 

Claud.    And  I'll  be  sworn  upon't,  that  he  loves  her ; 
For  here's  a  paper,  written  in  his  hand, 
A  halting  sonnet,  of  his  own  pure  brain, 
Fashioned  to  Beatrice. 

Hero.  And  here's  another, 

Writ  in  my  coijsin's  hand,  stolen  from  her  pocket, 
Containing  her  affection  unto  Benedick. 

Bene.  A  miracle !  Here's  our  own  hands  against 
our  hearts ! — Come,  I  will  have  thee ;  but,  by  this 
light,  I  take  thee  for  pity. 

Beat.    I  would  not  deny  you  ;   but,  by  this  good  day, 
I  yield  upon  great  persuasion ;    and,   partly,  to  save 
your  life,  for  I  was  told  you  were  in  a  consumption. 
VOL.  i.  64 


506  MUCH   ADO  ABOUT   NOTHING.  [ACT  V 

Bene.    Peace,  I  will  stop  your  mouth.   [Kissing  her. 

D.  Pedro.  How  dost  thou,  Benedick  the  married 
man  ? 

Bene.  I'll  tell  thce  what,  prince  ;  a  college  of  wit- 
crackers  cannot  flout  me  out  of  my  humor.  Dost 
thou  think  I  care  for  a  satire,  or  an  epigram  ?  No ; 
if  a  man  will  be  beaten  with  brains,  he  shall  wear 
nothing  handsome  about  him.  In  brief,  since  I  do 
propose  to  marry,  I  will  think  nothing  to  any  purpose 
that  the  world  can  say  against  it ;  and  therefore  never 
flout  at  me  for  what  1  have  said  against  it ;  for  man  is 
a  giddy  thing,  and  this  is  my  conclusion. — For  thy 
part,  Claudio,  I  did  think  to  have  beaten  thee  ;  but  in 
that  thou  art  like  to  be  my  kinsman,  live  unbiuised, 
and  love  my  cousin. 

Claud,  i  had  well  hoped  thou  wouldst  have  de 
nied  Beatrice,  that  I  might  have  cudgelled  thee  out  of 
thy  single  life,  to  make  thee  a  double  dealer  ;  which, 
out  of  question,  thou  wilt  be,  if  my  cousin  do  not  look 
exceeding  narrowly  to  thee. 

Bene.  Come,  come,  we  are  friends ; — Let's  have  a 
dance  ere  we  are  married,  that  we  may  lighten  our  own 
hearts,  and  our  wives'  heels. 

Leon.    We'll  have  dancing  afterwards. 

Bene.  First,  o'my  word :  therefore,  play,  music — 
prince,  thou  art  sad ;  get  thee  a  wife,  get  thee  a 
wife ;  there  is  no  staff  more  reverend  than  one  tipped 
with  horn. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  your  brother  John  is  ta'en  in  flight, 
And  brought  with  armed  men  back  to  Messina. 

Bene.  Think  not  on  him  till  to-morrow :  I'll  devise 
thee  brave  punishments  for  him. — Strike  up,  pipers. 

[Dance.     Exeunt 


507 


Much  Mo  about  Nothing  (as  I  understand  from  one  of  Mr.  Vertue's 
MSS.)  formerly  passed  under  the  title  of  Benedick  and  Beatrix.  Heming 
the  player  received,  on  the  20th  of  May,  161 3,  the  sum  of  forty  pounds, 
and  twenty  pounds  more  as  his  Majesty's  gratuity,  for  exhibiting  six  plays 

at  Hampton  Court,  among  which  was  this  comedy. 

STEEVENS. 


END    OF    VOL.    I. 


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